


Songs Live Longer

by Abrus



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bran Is Not A Creep, But Bran Is Also Not The King In the End Because Seriously What the Fuck, But His Name is Not Aegon Because Seriously Ew, Don't Worry About Season Eight I'm Fixing the Whole Series, F/F, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lyanna Mormont Lives, Lyanna Mormont Only Dies One Day Before 100 Out of Sheer Spite, M/M, Meera Gets Her Due However, Ned Stark Pisses Me Off, Other, Rhaego Lives, Rickon Lives, Rickon Zig Zags, Sandor Brings Extra Salt For His Chicken, Sandor Clegane Is Redeemed But No One Can Make Him Happy About It, Septas Aren't Useless, So I Fixed Him, The Direwolves Live, The Dragons Live, The King in The North, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), Theon Greyjoy Employs Actual Emotional Intelligence, To The Ripe Old Age of 99 And 364 Days, Wargs, Wildling!Rickon, You're Welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-11-15 22:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abrus/pseuds/Abrus
Summary: "Remember," Sansa whispers in Robb's ear. He holds her more tightly to his chest, sure she can feel his heartbeat nearly ready to bound out of it. "Remember what Father always says, and we can do this.""Winter is coming?""Yes, that. And." He feels her take a deep breath, and he tries to commit the way her hair smells to memory. It may be a long time before he sees his dear sister again. "Songs live longer than kingdoms.""Right," he whispers back, trying not to let his voice break. He finishes the adage. "But there will be plenty songs written about us."...In which Ned Stark realizes that with baby Jon alive, the war is not over, and conducts his household accordingly.Or: In which Ned Stark trusts his wife and his family, and it changes everything.There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and if there cannot be, then they must at least be prepared. After all... winter is coming.





	1. (what's past is) prologue

            Ned Stark stares up at the towers of Winterfell looming close overhead and tries very hard to feel relieved.

            He should feel joyful and triumphant. Both he and Robert had lived through the worst of it, when many great men had fallen. He had seen damn near all of the Seven Kingdoms, met many fine people, and fought valiantly on behalf of his sister; his poor, darling, dead sister. As he stares at Winterfell, all he can see is a younger Lyanna, trotting out of the gates on her white horse to meet with him. No, he does not feel joyful. This is not a triumph. This is a funeral march, her newborn’s blanket her shroud. Not literally, of course; he had insisted on carrying her torn body down the steps of that damned tower, carting it all the way back to Winterfell to lie peacefully with their ancestors. He had spent a great deal more than he should have to ensure that her actual shroud was gold, as befitting a queen.

            _Her son_ ; he rides in a carriage with the new Septa of Winterfell, Morgana, chosen specifically for her ability to be discreet. Ned knows that even though he’s told himself for the duration of the trip that lying to Catelyn and telling her the child is a bastard is the best course of action, his choice of Septa Morgana over Septa Mordane cements the opposite.

            Deep down, Ned Stark knows the war is not over. It has only been paused until the babe is full grown.

            _Jaehaerys Targaryen,_ his sister had whispered. _Please, Ned. Please. Robert will kill him._

            _Jon,_ Ned has decided. He damns himself for telling his sister the grand stories of Jaehaerys the First and the Good Queen Alysanne, of their trip to Winterfell and the Wall that became the foundations of their current society. _Honestly, a name like Jaehaerys will see the boy murdered in a fortnight. Jon will do._

            The babe cries all through the welcome of the good folk of Wintertown, and then as they cross the gates into Winterfell. All the servants and small folk surround the courtyard, clapping and cheering wildly. There’s the smell of fresh food cooking for the feast to be held this evening, and Ned must admit he’s looking forward to a warm bath.

            Catelyn, so young and fresh in the face of war, cradles their small son in her hands and beams down at him. He grins back at her, waving, but watches as her face falls when Septa Morgana exits the carriage carefully with Jae- with Jon Snow.

            For a brief, terrifying moment he thinks perhaps she’ll ignore him, and he won’t have a chance to tell her everything until after the feast. He can see it, stretched out before him, their entire future together, trying to love and build in between his “bastard.” Her eyes are already full of fury and tears; no, he’d made the correct decision, hiring Septa Morgana and choosing to tell Catelyn everything.

            He runs to the top of the bannister to greet her, the people below going wild, screaming and shouting with glee when he swoops her into his arms. She doesn’t resist his greeting kiss, but she doesn’t lean into it either the way he’s been imagining for months. Lyanna’s voice echoes in his head; _promise me, Ned._

            “Come with me, Cat, please,” he breathes against her mouth. Her brows furrow in confusion, but then she’s turning toward the crowd and grinning again, passing their Robb to him.

            Robb, named after Robert, the man who slayed thousands for the love of a woman that did not want him. His heart thuds painfully in his chest.

            He doesn’t remember, later, what he says below to the crowd, only that they seem to eat out of the palm of his hand. Eyes are bright and thrilled, filled with the hope of a fresh summer without bloodshed. Oh, it’s terrible, truly; so far, only he knows what is to come.

            Catelyn follows him dutifully to their chambers, where a steaming bath has already been drawn. Ned disrobes without preamble, watching with pleasure as her cheeks flame and she glances away, though together they have made a son.

            He chuckles, lowly, half hard already though he knows any touches must wait until after he has told her all of it, the whole bloody ordeal. “Cat. Come here, my love. I’m a bit sore from the road. Could you wash my hair for me?”

            It’s a weak excuse, he knows it, she knows it. Still, he considers it a good sign when she purses her lips and stiffly reaches out for a jug to gather the water from around him.

            “My dear Cat. I know you must have so many questions. So many concerns.”

            “That’s one word for it,” she snips. He barely refrains from smiling. Such fire, such will. His wife was chosen well.

            “Catelyn Stark, I am yours. You are mine. Let’s not squabble. I have much to tell you. Pray tell, how long until we are expected for the feast?”

            She eyes him carefully, pausing in her vicious lathering of the soap. “Several hours.”

            “Aye. That’s good. This discussion will take a long while. Tell me, Catelyn; do you enjoy being Lady Stark?”

            “I would. If it were true that you _were_ mine, as I am yours,” she sniffs. Her mouth is set in a hard line, but Ned watches it tremble. His heart aches for her, his strong woman.

            “I’m very proud of you, Cat. You’ve done a wonderful job with Winterfell in my absence. The people adore you. You’ve won their respect, and mine. Listen to me, sweet. I was never dishonorable toward you.”

            She pours the jug of water over his head without warning. Ned splutters for a moment, then grins at her.

            “It’s true!”

            “Oh? Then what of the babe? I suppose you thought nine months was too long a wait for our Robb to have a playmate? Found him conveniently on the side of the King’s Road?”

            “Catelyn, be serious for a moment. You are my lady wife, and I wish there to be no secrets between us. But I must admit, I’ve had many long months on the road to think of the best course of action, and I have a plan. It’s a course that will take many years to run, but I believe it is best. Can I trust you, Cat? With everything, as a man ought trust his wife?”

            She blinks her big blue eyes at him, bluer still in the light of the day that pours through the windows. They’re open, letting air in that ruffles the shades. The stone of Winterfell only makes her eyes brighter in contrast; he feels as though he could swim in them.

            Truly, if Catelyn trusts in him not, all may be lost.

            Finally, she takes a deep breath, reaching for the soap again and rubbing it carefully into his scalp. He moans quietly, watches as she bites her lip at the sound.

            “I am yours. You _are_ mine,” she nods, scraping her nails more harshly against his head. “Tell me what you must, husband. I will do my very best to please you, as is my duty.”

            _Family, duty, honor._ He had been unsure, but he finds now he is quite blessed to have a Tully wife.

            “The boy is not my son,” he shakes his head. Her hands fall from his hair to land on his face, allowing him to turn his head only for her eyes to fall to the long stubble on his chin. She rolls her eyes and reaches for a blade.

            He can’t make himself say it. He can’t make himself say, _my sister._ Instead, he chokes out, “But he is my blood.”

            Cat sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment he thinks he’s been cut, but there is no sting on his face. She blinks at him, eyes wild, mouth agape in a most unusual, unladylike fashion.

            “Your blood,” she repeats numbly.

            _“His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen_ ,” Ned whispers. The curtains flap in the breeze, he smells the clean scent of their bed, the water in his tub ripples, the world continues to turn. Still, it feels as though time has frozen. He watches Cat put the pieces together bit by bit.

            “Oh, gods,” she whispers. “Oh, Ned. _Targaryen._ Oh, poor, sweet Lyanna-“

            “She made me promise. You don’t understand, Cat,” he chokes, the damnable tears trickling down, down, even though he’d promised himself they were dry. “The marriage to Elia… Rhaegar had it annulled. He married my sister. They loved one another; she went with him willingly. Which means-“

            “Which means that babe in the nursery across the hall is the true heir to the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne Robert Baratheon just usurped.”

            There are so many things he wishes to say; he doesn’t know how Cat will react. She could demand _Jon_ be killed, be fostered out, be ostracized from his own son. She could wail or weep or cast blame. He’s half-risen out of the tub, ready to handle her shock, when she breaks out in a wide grin.

            “Oh, Ned. This is wonderful. I’m so happy you found him. I hate that Lyanna had to pass, I’m sure you saw it, _how terrible,_ but-“

            “You’re not angry? I’m telling you, Cat, I won’t have the boy mistreated-“

            “No, of course not. We’ll be very careful. I’ll just have to convince everyone that I’m so in love with you, it doesn’t matter to me who his mother is. That will be… easy.”

            She smiles shyly at him, hands trembling. He falls back to his knees in the tub, lays his head against her knees.

            “Thank you, my love. Truly.”

            “But, Ned.”

            He looks up at her, her eyes suddenly serious. This is what he had fought so hard to come home for. This woman is his future, he just knows it.

            “Yes?”

            “You mentioned a plan. This is going to be very dangerous. We’re raising the next king, and not just any king, but a Targaryen. I know you loved your sister, but, well. You know what they say about Targaryens. Honestly, we’re lucky he doesn’t have purple eyes and white hair. _Maiden_ , he doesn’t have purple eyes, does he? I didn’t get a good look.”

            Ned shakes his head, distracted, his head already spinning through the details of his loosely crafted plot. “No, no, his coloring is true to the Starks.”

            She nods, momentarily assuaged, her fingers carefully picking through the knots in his hair.

            “Tell me truly, Cat; do you wish to have more children?”

            “As many as you’ll be pleased to give to me,” she nods firmly. A fierce joy lights up her face. He can see she well and truly loves their son and heir.

            “That pleases me more than you know, my lady,” he smiles. He brings her knuckles to his lips, delighting in the way she grins back at him. He wiggles his eyebrows at her salaciously and she shrieks in false indignation, reaching down to splash bathwater into his face.

            “You’ll have to tolerate me as I lose my figure,” she shrugs, biting her lip.

            “You, lose your figure? Never. It will only become more figure-full.”        

            “Ned, focus,” she whispers, even as he leans forward to tug at the collar of her gown. “The babe.”

            “Indeed.” He sits back, somber once more. The bath water is cool by now, but he doesn’t mind the soak. After so long heavy on a horse, feeling weightless like this is relaxing.

            “Catelyn, it may not be what you imagined, but I plan on raising our children to be true to the words of House Stark; _winter is coming._ That winter will be both literal, and in time, another war. There’s no way Robert is going to give up the throne without one, after all of this. He despises the Targaryens. He’d rather kill ten thousand more men, personally, than see one live.”

            “But the boy has living relatives-“

            “Yes, an uncle so young he’s never known winter, and an aunt two moon turns younger than himself,” Ned nods. “I’ve been attempting to keep track of them, but it’s gotten more difficult since they fled Dragonstone.”

            Catelyn worries her lip. “Ned, I love the babe because he is of your blood. I am a Stark, and so is the child. But the others… the Targaryens nearly destroyed House Stark. I’m not so sure we should aid them.”

            “They’re babes as well, Cat. Motherless children, driven across the sea. And blood of our blood, no less. If Jon is to succeed, he’ll need them.”

            Catelyn frowns, her mind clearly going several places at once. He gives her a moment to digest, accepting the robe she hands to him. She quickly finds some spare linen to rub across his shoulders, and he closes his eyes at the comfort.

            “You called him Jon?”

            “Jon Snow. It’s as common of a name as I could think of, but… I wanted to stick with a _J._ Maybe later, _Jaehaerys_ won’t be so big a shock.”

            “I like it. Both Jon, and Jaehaerys. Lyanna chose well.”

            “Aye.”

            “You mean to marry Jon to his aunt, don’t you?” Catelyn finally sighs. Dry, he shifts into the robe, crossing to the bed where his feast clothing is already set out.

            “You picked the blue. I hope you’ll match; your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” he says.

            “Don’t try to distract me.”

            Ned sighs. “Yes. Yes, I think Daenerys would be his most advantageous match, in the future. It would secure their rule. Bridge the divide between the Kingdoms.”

            Catelyn nods. “If the girl is to be family, we must do something, Ned.”

            “I’ve already thought of it. Lord Mormont told me that he’s decided to take the Black, but he’s concerned.”

            “Oh?”

            “His son was less than interested in participating in the war. He’s been participating in the slave trade instead, trying to stuff Bear Island’s coiffers while the rest of us died in trenches. He’s young, but he’s skilled. Rather than sentence him to death, I’m going to offer him the choice of _exile._ He’ll take a small, discreet team across the Narrow Sea. He’ll find the children and make sure they’re looked after.”

            “Brilliant,” Catelyn breathes. She seems rather breathless, staring at him on their marriage bed. He smiles at her, reaching for her. She comes much more willingly this time, curling under his arm.

            “As for us, we’ll raise all our children the same. I mean it, Cat. Jon included, but also any daughters we have. I saw what happens to ladies in war. It’s horrific. What happened to Ly- to my sis- to, er, to Jon’s mother, won’t be happening to any other Stark girls. They’ll know what the boys know, but they’ll hide it under pretty silks.”

            Catelyn is quiet for a long time.

            Finally, she says, “You mean to raise them as weapons.”

            “Not as weapons, Cat,” he shakes his head. “As _wolves._ ”

* * *

 

            By the time they are finished talking, they are nearly late to the feast. The hours had slipped away with their voices, their hands stroking delicately across each other’s skin in between sentences. They are new to one another still; Ned delights in discovering all the places that make his wife smile or laugh or moan. Still, there is an intimacy there that he feels cannot be broken. He is deeply grateful that he chose to share the truth with Cat.

            Ned grabs the arm of one of the servants, dashing between the great hall and the kitchen, to remind him to ensure Septa Morgana receives as much as she wishes in the nursery. After all, her careful education of the boys begins as soon as tomorrow.

            He steers Catelyn through many dances, drinks his way through at least three bottles of Dorne’s finest wines. Tomorrow morning, he’ll quietly lay his sister to rest in the crypts. He’ll cut her as many blue roses as he can find, and carry her son back into the light.

            And then the real war will begin.


	2. beginning of the end

            Her lady mother is not pleased the day they find the direwolves.

            “Ned, honestly, the beasts are _wild_! They’re meant to be free, not kept as pets. What if that black one chews Rickon’s ear off-“

            Sansa tunes them out, waiting for the family meeting to begin officially. The pointed ears of her sweet Lady twitch as she strokes them with her fingertips. It hadn’t taken her long at all to come up with the name. She’d taken one look at the pup and known.

Nearly all of her siblings are present; the Starks hold a family meeting at least once a week, but this is the second in only four days, and so she feels a tension she hasn’t felt before. Bran is still quiet from witnessing his first execution just this morning. Jon nudges Bran’s direwolf, Summer, who is already napping by the fire. Bran slaps his hand away, willing to let the pup rest.

            “Mine is rambunctious,” Arya grins. Indeed, Nymeria is already chewing on a frayed end of Arya’s breeches.

            “You know Mother said you’d have to wear the ripped pair if you keep ruining breeches,” Sansa sighs.

            “That’s what they’re for!”

            Sansa rolls her eyes but feels a smile break across her face as Robb enters the room, pulling a sleepy Rickon by the hand.

            “Was curling up with my shaggy dog,” Rickon whines, still but a babe, really.

            “Oh! That would be a good name, brother,” Sansa reaches for the boy, pulling him into her lap. Lady gives a delicate huff but moves to the floor obligingly to make room. “ _Shaggydog._ I like that very much.”

            “Well he _is_ shaggy,” Rickon grumbles as though he’s not just been paid a compliment.

            Sansa shares a small smile with her mother, and then her father clears his throat.

            “Everyone,” he begins, then seems to hesitate. The tension in Sansa’s chest drops to her stomach, spreading alarm through her toes. Something has changed; it must have.

            “Your father and I received a raven today,” Catelyn continues.

            “Is it winter?” Bran asks. Sansa cannot tell if he’s pleased about the idea or not. He hangs onto the stories of Old Nan, but dreads the ice that will freeze over his footholds in the castle walls.

            “No, sweetling, it’s not winter,” Catelyn shakes her head, reaching out to ruffle Bran’s hair.

            It’s Robb that reads the tension in Ned’s face first. “Oh, hells, it’s King Robert. He’s figured us out. He’s-“

            Jon leaps to his feet, appearing as though to flee or fight an enemy that isn’t here yet. Arya is only a beat behind him, hand flying to the small, thin sword she insists on keeping at her side at all times. Sansa’s mind goes still and speeds up all at once.

            “The King has written to your lord father,” Catelyn continues. “He wishes to visit Ned in light of what has happened to his Hand, the lord Jon Arryn. It is… _likely_ that King Robert will demand your father return south with him to serve as Hand. I’m certain he knows that your father does not wish to leave Winterfell; him coming here will ensure that your father will have no true choice but to accept.”

            No one but Sansa seems to notice how her mother’s voice shakes.

            Ned holds up a hand, and Catelyn falls silent. He pulls her closer to his side, and she tucks herself beneath his arm, head on his shoulder. Sansa drinks the sight in; all she’s ever wanted is a love like theirs, warm and protective and unbreakable.

            Tears spring to her eyes unbidden, and she dashes them away angrily.

            “The war that we’ve tried to prepare all of you for is here,” Ned announces somberly. The fire in the hearth illuminates him like one of the pictures in the books little Rickon tolerates. Shadow hides his expression. “Along with Septa Morgana, we have tried hard to instill values into you all that will carry you far in peacetime; honor, duty, family, as your cousins the Tullys prescribe. Respect for the small folk, for the land and the Old Gods and the New, for one another. Now, however, it is time to employ the other skills we have tried to impart; resourcefulness, cunning, strength, loyalty. In the coming days, we are all to be tested.”

            There’s nothing but silence and the crackling of the fire for a moment. Her siblings around her scarcely breathe. Sansa feels a weight settle into her chest.

            “Jon, to me, son. There is something we must do, and then we must talk long into the night. We need a plan.”

            Jon approaches Ned and Catelyn. Sansa watches as her mother reaches for the boy’s face. He’s grown up quite handsome, already capable of growing a thick beard and with long, flowing black hair she would be jealous of if her own weren’t so fine. Sansa has never seen a Targaryen, but there’s something in Jon that is powerful as he moves and she likes to think it’s the blood of the dragon.

            “No matter what happens, you are our son. We are proud of you, Jon,” Catelyn whispers. Sansa lowers her eyes respectfully when Jon’s face flushes.

            “We told each of you long ago, when we first began to train you, that your brother Jon is actually your cousin, Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men. It will not be easy to serve him and remain, for appearances, in the dark as to his parentage. However, this must be done. Jon’s identity _cannot_ be revealed until firstly, the usurper King Robert has been dethroned. Secondly, not until his bethrothed, Daenerys Targeryen, has returned from Essos, and lastly, absolutely not until we have the forces needed to create and maintain lasting unity in the Kingdoms. That means not until _all_ resistance has been quelled from all the Houses. I promised my sister I would protect him; this is the best way I have devised to do so. I’ve written a missive, explaining my experiences, what I thus far _believe_ to be true, and what I _know_ to be true. If anything should happen to me, I want each of you to observe where to find it when that time comes.”

            Ned goes to his large wooden desk, said to have been carved from a weirtree cut down in the South many years ago. From a small notch, he pulls a thick scroll. Glancing meaningfully at each of his children, he takes a pick from the hearth and pries open a layer of stone that likely has not moved since Winterfell’s creation. Behind the stone, he places the scroll.

            “I want each of you to choose something of importance upon your person to place here inside the stone. This shall be our last line of defense; I do not know what will happen to each of us, and we may need to retrieve this scroll from afar. Still, I hope there will always be a Stark in Winterfell; even if one of you cannot come personally, you could tell your vassals what each item was, so the other would know to hand the scroll over.”

            Sansa knows immediately what she will place inside the stone, and though her stomach fills with dread and her eyes with tears, she carefully reaches behind to unclasp her dragonfly necklace. It had been a present from the Dornish lords for her last nameday; Catelyn had said that the Martells were interested in betrothing her to their son, Trystane. Sansa had always longed to see the desert, so different from the icy scapes of the North. She had written the boy a personal thank-you note, and they’d had lovely correspondences ever since.

            _Never waste an ally,_ Septa Mordane had said with a wink, and then taught her how to apply perfume to an envelope.

            “Here you are, father,” Sansa whispers, and hands the dangling dragonfly over by the chain. Ned holds it up, making sure each child takes notice, then wraps it around the scroll. For some reason, Sansa’s heart warms to look at it.

            “You loved that necklace,” Arya breathes accusingly next to her.

            Sansa shrugs.

            “Alright then,” Arya nods, and as though she is a knight and not a small girl, she gallantly presents her sword, Needle, to their father.

            “Arya, sweet, I didn’t mean for this to be a sacrificial exercise,” Ned shakes his head, eyes wide.

            “If a war is beginning, I’ll need a larger one anyway. I’ve been looking for an excuse to have the smith make me a new one for a while.”

            Ned nods, once, gruffly, and places Needle behind the scroll.

            Next comes an old ring of Lyanna’s that Catelyn had given to Jon on his tenth nameday; the first handkerchief Sansa had ever embroidered from Robb, a glittering pebble from Winterfell’s tallest tower from Bran, and everyone’s laughter when Rickon squints for a moment, still too young to completely understand, and tries to hand over Shaggydog.

            “Excellent. I’m proud of each of you,” Ned nods. “Now. Let’s talk about what’s actually in the scroll, and Robert’s visit, shall we?”

* * *

 

            “If I still had Needle,” Arya grumbles, shifting uncomfortably in her blue dress, “I could just poke the damned King’s eye out and be done with it all.”

            “Hush that talk this instant, or I’ll tell Mother,” Sansa hisses.

            Arya feels more than sees Jon roll his eyes behind them. “Should I be concerned that you’re so willing to commit regicide, Arya?”

            “Not if you’re a decent regent someday,” Arya sniffs.

            Robb turns to glare at both of them just as the King’s carriage breeches the walls of Winterfell.

            Arya tracks the movements of each horse and person with her eyes, squirming in her effort to stay still. She has no sword, but she did strap a dagger underneath her gown, just for comfort’s sake. There, nearly in the front, rides Prince Joffrey, with his bodyguard the Hound behind, in full armor. Arya knows her sister’s eyes are on the prince’s golden head, while Arya’s follows the Hound. She’s heard the most fearsome stories about him, but she’s not certain if she respects him.

            The Queen is likely inside the carriage, but… “Where’s the Imp?”

            “Oh, _do_ shut up,” Sansa whispers.

            Arya’s eyes are already moving again, this time locking onto a second golden head; long hair shakes loose from an expensive helmet. Hatred rolls in Arya’s gut. “There’s Jaime, the Queen’s brother.”

            Her father had told them what he suspected happened to Hand Arryn; that Ned, too, had heard whispers of Cersei’s deep _affection_ for her brother, that Jon Arryn surmised the Queen’s children were not legitimate. In Arya’s opinion, it’s terrible enough that Robert murdered Jon’s father; now the Queen hasn’t even respected the Iron Throne enough to keep from incest.

            “ _Hush_ ,” Sansa breathes as the King rides into Winterfell, large and comely and generally obnoxious.

            Arya falls to her knees, somewhat ungracefully in the lumpy dress, when King Robert dismounts. He approaches their father first, practically waddling in his thick tailored clothing.

            Ned Stark stands when beckoned, and stares at the King, waiting for him to speak first.

            Finally, Robert announces, “You’ve gotten fat.”

            Arya feels rage simmer through her blood, and next to her, Sansa reaches out a hand to wrap around Arya’s before she can reach underneath her skirts for her dagger. Sansa squeezes her hand comfortingly as their father laughs, and then King Robert is moving down the line to observe each of them.

            “What’s your name, then?” he asks Arya. A month has passed since King Robert announced he was leaving King’s Landing, and in all that time, she never imagined she’d be so unimpressed with the man before her now. Ned Stark loves his daughters. The bells hand rung all day and all night when Sansa was born, and Ned had personally ordered the firing of canons from the hilltops for herself.

            “Arya.”

            “Hm,” Robert grunts. When he moves on to Bran, a flash of red and gold catches her eyes. Cersei has finally left the carriage, unaccompanied, steps behind the King. She does not seem pleased to be in Winterfell.

            Finally through with the niceties, Robert turns back to stare hard at Ned. “Show me to your crypts. I’d like to pay my respects.”

            “Honestly, we’ve been on the road for a month,” Cersei mutters, and of all things, even Arya knows that’s not quite appropriate. Sansa is the one born for courts and courtesies, not her, but Arya had learned all the same. Her mother and Septa Morgana had taught her that it was a game, a mask she could wear before slitting a throat.

            Well, alright, they hadn’t quite mentioned that last part, but that’s what Arya heard all the same and it suits her.

            “The crypts, Ned,” Robert insists.

            Each Stark sibling inconspicuously gives Jon’s hand a squeeze as they pass, and all but Arya tries to look away from the dark, dark look in his eyes.

* * *

Jon is not permitted to sit with the rest of the family at the welcoming feast for the usurper king, but he doesn’t mind sitting next to Theon and sneaking Ghost some scraps underneath the table.

            “Honestly, I believe I could convince the old man to allow me to wed the girl, but where’s the fun in Wintertown if I do that?” Theon is shrugging carelessly, piling his plate high with potatoes and little else.

            “You really should leave Jeyne alone,” Jon answers distractedly. “She’s too sweet for the likes of you.”

            Jon watches Arya launch food off her spoon and into Sansa’s hair, watches Sansa shriek. Arya had always been the least likely of each of them to pay attention to courtly manners, choosing instead to focus on combative skills. Still, he can’t help but think that both she and Sansa look very grown up in their gowns. It makes his throat tighten.

            “Jeyne is highborn, but not too highborn, which means I might have a shot at her. At least someday I can bring a wife back to the Iron Isles, prove my time in Winterfell was well spent.”

            “Of course it was well spent. This is your family.”

            Theon shrugs and pushes his potatoes around on his plate, his eyes suddenly larger than his stomach.

            There’s a sudden commotion at another table as someone very blatantly offends the Hound. The man stands, sighing in a rather long-suffering fashion, and promptly smashes a plate on top of a Northern lord’s head.

            “Apologies,” the Hound nods, not sounding very apologetic at all. He leaves the table altogether, disappearing out the door to the courtyard. Jon, curious and in need of fresh air, stands to follow. He notices the Lannister Imp do the same.

            “I’ve always thought Lord Bolton to be a bit of a prick, myself,” Jon nods conversationally. The Hound is leaning up against Winterfell’s walls, looking with curiosity after Ghost, who runs deep into the godswood and disappears from sight.

            “The pet bastard gets a pet wolf as well, I see,” the Hound mutters, tilting his ugly scarred head in Jon’s direction.

            The moniker had made Jon angry when he was younger. The Starks never treated him with anything but kindness, and he knows it’s not just because he’s to be king someday, gods willing. There’s genuine love in Catelyn’s eyes when she looks at him; Ned always chokes up, telling him stories about his mother. Jon may not have the Stark name, but he is a Stark, and a trueborn at that. He likes the look in Robb’s eyes every time someone calls him a bastard; it’s almost like a private joke, now.

            Jon shrugs. “Ghost was the runt.”

            “Not for long.”

            “I understand. I was the runt of my litter, too,” Tyrion says, announcing his presence by leaving the shadows of the doorway and slamming it shut behind him. He’s holding a rather large goblet of wine, seeming to have already drank plenty.

            “A dog, a bastard, and an imp all walk into a bar…” The Hound mutters lowly.

            Tyrion shakes his head, thrusting his goblet forward as though to make a toast. “Never forget what you are! The rest of the world shall not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used against you.”

            “You read too many books,” the Hound shoots back.

            “Or not enough,” Jon shrugs.

            The Hound stares at him in surprise, clearly trying not to smile and seeming furious over the inclination. It’s a rather funny countenance, Jon thinks.

            “Tell me,” Jon continues, turning to stare at Tyrion. The small man is attempting to sit himself on top of a barrel, without much success. “Do your books have anything to say about wights beyond the Wall?”

            “Wights? As in, dead men that walk again, thirsting for the souls of all living? Indeed, there are many such tales, but that is all they are. Tales.”

            “Not according to the man my father executed yesterday,” Jon shrugs. “We all heard him. Said he deserted the Wall and the Watch because the dead were coming for him, anyway. He’d rather face my father’s sword.”

            “Now that is an interesting tale,” Tyrion nods. “Someone ought to write it down.”

            “I’m going North, to the Wall, to investigate the claims. It’s likely nothing, but it’s best to know for oneself, my father says.”

            “The Wall,” the Hound snorts, spitting on the ground. “I’d rather catch greyscale and turn to ruddy stone.”

            “What a fascinating trip! You know, Jaime and I always talked about visiting the Wall. Just to see how long it would take our piss to hit the bottom. Do you fancy company, young bastard?”

            Jon stares at Tyrion through the dark, trying to understand whether or not he’s joking. He thinks of Sansa’s pretty eyelashes batting at the prince, of Arya’s dagger underneath her skirts. He thinks of Robb’s watchful eyes, and Bran’s snooping as he climbs.

            _Never waste an ally,_ he hears Septa Morgana say in his head.

            “Alright,” Jon nods. “If you wish.”

            The Hound stares incredulously between the two of them, and then stomps away, never minding Ghost’s faint howls.

* * *

            Ned sighs heavily, staring out into the night from his quarters, trying to peer across the godswood to the wide field where he’d had a kennel constructed in hasty fashion. He’d heard whispers of the Queen’s pettiness and cruelty; he’d ordered the children keep their wolves contained around the King and Queen, but of course they frequently snuck them out.

            Catelyn stands behind him, rubbing his shoulders through his tunic. He adores the scent of her hair, still the same all these years later, and the softness of her breasts pressed against his back. She is truly his rock in all of this, guiding him with quelling looks and approving nods through the more complicated conversations with the Southern lords.

            “I have something to confess,” Ned says, finally.

            “Oh?”

            “You’re not going to like this, Cat, but it was the best I could get out of Robert.”

            Catelyn’s hands still. “He wants us all to go South.”

            “No, not quite that bad. He’s asked for Sansa, Catelyn. He wishes to betroth Sansa to Joffrey. Try as we might, Robert has never quite felt secure with the North. He said, _I’ve a son, you’ve a daughter. Let’s combine our Houses._ I had planned on speaking with her about it tomorrow. He also advised I bring Arya South, to keep Sansa company and secure a second match.”

            “Arya isn’t going to be enough to protect Sansa from Joffrey, Ned,” Catelyn frets. She turns away from him, and he knows it’s to stop him from seeing how she wrings her hands nervously.

            “Aye. That’s why I put up a hard bargain, Cat. I agreed to betroth Joffrey to Sansa… if, and only if, the King sold the service of the Hound to the girl.”

            Catelyn whirls, no longer wringing her hands but eyes rather furious. “ _The Hound?!_ That beastly man that broke one of our fine dishes? Oh, Ned. You cannot be serious. We know the stories! And his monstrous brother-“

            “He was defending Sansa, Cat,” Ned interjects. He holds his hands out to his lady wife, hoping to calm the wild look in her eye. “He broke his plate over the man’s head because he made a crude comment about our girl and the prince. I know he is not courtly. But I have listened closely to the stories, and I do believe him to be honorable.”

            “It should have been Sansa’s choice. All of it. We always swore we would give the girls a choice, Ned.”

            “Aye. But this is war. And sometimes in war, we don’t have many choices to make.”

            Catelyn seems to deflate, folding herself against his chest. She does not weep, and he is proud. So proud. He runs his fingers through her long auburn hair, trying to memorize the shade against his skin.

            “Alright. Alright. When do you leave to go South?”

            “In three days.”

            “Mm. We’d best make the most of them, then.”

            And then she’s dropping her own robes to the floor, body still lithe and stunning after five children and two decades. His blood rushes from his head, leaving him dizzy.

            Catelyn moans so loudly he does not hear the wolves howling in their kennels.

            He’s only thankful that Bran walks in on them moments after they are finished and not right in the middle; he throws Catelyn’s thick furs about her shoulders, cursing and scrambling for his breeches.

            “Son, what is it? Can’t it wait until dawn’s light, at least?”

            Bran frowns, serious for perhaps the first time in his short life. “No father, it can’t. I was climbing- _I know, Mother, I’m sorry_ \- and I saw something.”

            “Something?”

            “I saw Jaime Lannister and his sister the Queen… doing what you and Mother were just doing.”

* * *

            Septa Morgana kneels next to Sansa, whispering the prayer of the Seven quietly. Sansa is more focused on the looming shadow of the Hound seated in one of the two rows of pews in the tiny Sept of Winterfell. He hadn’t spoken a word, only entered and sat glowering at the back of her head.

            She focuses on the pattern of colored light made by the stained glass, a gift her father had ordered made for her mother on the day of Rickon’s birth. Rickon’s birth had been very difficult on her lady mother; the Maesters had all said they believed she’d be unable to conceive any more children due to the scarring.

            The door opens as they finish their prayer, and Septa Morgana reaches over to squeeze Sansa’s hands reassuringly. In public, the Septa does not speak much; her brown-golden hair is always pulled back under her robes, and her kind blue eyes do much speaking for her. Sansa knows that underneath, however, she wears a dagger similar to Arya’s attached to a silver chain prescribed with verses from the Book of the Seven.

            “Sansa, a word,” her father says, shutting the door and bolting it behind him.

            Sansa raises an eyebrow at him.

            “Father, ser Clegane-“ she begins.

            “I’m not a bloody ser, girl, so quit your chirping.”

            It’s the first words he’s said to her, and they are not kind. He’s still glaring. Alone in only the presence of her father and her Septa, Sansa glares right back.

            “Excuse you. My chirping?”

            “Aye. Chirping. You remind me of a little bird from the Summer Isles, repeating all the pretty words someone else has taught you.”

            Heat floods Sansa’s face, burning all the way down to the collar of her dress. How dare he?

            Her eyes flick to her father’s, and Ned is watching both of them carefully. She knows that calculating look in his eye, and she straightens.

            _Oh, no._

            “Father…”

            “Aye, Sansa. There are many things we need to speak about, and I wish we had time to speak at length, but we do not. Listen carefully. I know that we’ve always promised that, should we have the opportunity to do so, we would allow both you and Arya to choose your own lord husbands. Unfortunately, that is no longer a possibility. King Robert has asked not only for my service as hand, but also yours… as Joffrey’s betrothed.”

            The Sept begins to spin around Sansa. All she can see is Joffrey’s cruel smirk as he orders the butcher’s boy beaten for a small infraction after the feast, at the butcher’s own hand; Arya shrieking wildly and nearly causing a tiff with the Queen all the while. She can still hear the boy’s cries, his father’s sobs.

            She had imagined many times what it would feel like, look like, for the war her father had always spoken of to start again, but she had never imagined this sickening, swooping feeling in her stomach. It feels as though her insides are about to claw their way out of her.

            There’s a calculating look on the Hound’s face as well, as though he is surprised by the tears suddenly streaming down her face. Still, this was always a possibility, and she knows it. She nods solemnly.

            “I’ll try my best to maintain the honor of House Stark, Father,” she says.

            Seeming anguished, Ned reaches for her, as though to stroke her hair back, but she jerks away.

            “Why is he here?” she asks, jutting her chin in the Hound’s direction. “He’s awfully hateful.”

            “You’ll be thankful for my hatred, girl, when I’m all that stands between you and your beloved Prince Joffrey,” the Hound snarls.

            Her father whirls and holds a hand up, halting the man’s words, but her father looks almost amused.

            “I didn’t give you away without a thought for you, Sansa. Of course I couldn’t. The services of the Hound have been sold to House Stark. We’re here in the Sept because I intend to ask Sandor Clegane to become your sworn shield.”

            Sansa blinks in surprise, turning a new eye on the man. He shifts uncomfortably, staring up at the Star of the Seven and seeming as though he’d very much like to curse.

            “Him?” Sansa asks coldly. “But he’s awful. He’s done terrible things… he serves the _Lannisters._ ”

            The Hound sneers at her, lips curling back over his teeth as though he really is a dog. “Aye, I’ve done terrible things, girl, and you’d best remember them. I’ve gutted men like fish, and will do so again.”

            Sansa is practically growling; her entire frame trembles with fear and rage. “You may be terrible, Sandor Clegane, but I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is _my_ home, and you cannot frighten me.”

            Ned actually does laugh out loud as the Hound stares in astonishment at Sansa. Seemingly quelled, he places a hand on his sword and draws it. Sansa’s breath catches at the sound of metal ringing.

            “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

            “Indeed. Septa Morgana?” Ned turns to the woman, holding out an affectionate hand for her to take. She stands between Sansa and Sandor, placing them just so, and then presses hard on the Hound’s wrist until he kneels. She seems uncaring for his glares.

            “Repeat after me, my Lady,” Septa Morgana mutters. Her eyes glow with approval at Sansa’s father, which makes her feel a bit better about this whole mess.

            “ _I vow that you shall always have a home by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table,”_ Sansa repeats, hearing the plate shatter over the man’s head over and over again. For the first time since entering the Sept, she feels warm. _“And I pledge to ask no service of you that shall bring you dishonor.”_

The Hound seems to flinch, but does not open his eyes.

            _“I swear it,_ ” Sansa finishes without prompting. “ _I swear it by the Old gods, and the New.”_

            The Hound leaps to his feet without another word, without a backwards glance, and storms from the Sept; but Sansa notices he does not leave the door for the sunshine without her.

* * *

            Robb stares at the multiple wagons and carriages his father has prepared for the long trip South, and tries not to cry like a little boy knowing he may never see him again.

            And his sister, his sweet, darling sister. He had gone to her after the announcement of her betrothal to Joffrey to find her shaking and breathing too quickly alone in her quarters.

            “I’ll take care of Lady,” he had promised her. “She’ll be with me and Grey Wind, and will never leave our side. One day, I’ll see her returned to you.”

            Now he stares at Joffrey, blustering at his flinching servants, and wonders if he’ll ever make good on his promise

            He knows Jon is leaving too in a matter of days, with the Lannister Imp of all people, to see to the needs of the Wall and also to hide as far North as possible before their lord father goes South to announce Cersei Lannister’s treason and all hell breaks loose. His entire family is splitting apart at the seams, and no matter how much education he’s had, he still finds himself floundering.

            Sansa approaches him before climbing into the carriage, the Hound close at her side. It’s an odd sight, to see his slight sister with such a large shadow, but Robb wholeheartedly approves of his father’s choice.

            Sansa folds herself into his chest, and only he can tell that’s she still shaking.

            "Remember," Sansa whispers in Robb's ear. He holds her more tightly to his chest, sure she can feel his heartbeat nearly ready to bound out of it. "Remember what father always says, and we can do this.

"Winter is coming?"

"Yes, that. And." He feels her take a deep breath, and he tries to commit the way her hair smells to memory. It may be a long time before he sees his dear sister again. "Songs live longer than kingdoms."

"Right," he whispers back, trying not to let his voice break. He finishes the adage. "But there will be plenty songs written about us."

The Hound rolls his eyes and stalks away to hold the carriage door open for Sansa, then Arya, who is carrying a package shaped suspiciously like a new sword.

            There’s one last flash of Sansa’s red hair before they disappear from view.

            They watch from the bannisters as the King’s court disappears over the cold hills; Catelyn yells until she is hoarse for Bran to come down from the tower, but he yells back that he can still see them, and will not be swayed.

            Catelyn rolls her eyes, and then she grips Robb’s arm.

            “Come. I need you to do something for me immediately.”

            He frowns at her, confused and saddened and wishing desperately for a nap. “Oh? What’s that?”

            “I need you to write to Olenna Tyrell.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely stunned by the response this has received! Thank you all so much. I live for your kind comments and enthusiasm! I hope you loved this chapter. The Starks have left Winterfell once more... Updates on Sundays! See you next week.


	3. cut and run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 premieres tonight!! Celebrate with me by getting this story back on track.

            There is no fanfare when Jon leaves Winterfell; the smallfolk had waved handkerchiefs and passed snacks to Arya and Sansa with their lord father all those moon-turns ago, following their carriages and the whole procession for miles.

            When Jon leaves, all that comes to wish him goodbye is his family and Theon.

            He supposes Tyrion Lannister must be feeling much the same; he had been left behind with the scraps when his queenly sister had finally rolled away. No one had inquired when he might return to King’s Landing, or why exactly he wished to visit the Wall. At least when Catelyn looks at Jon, there are honest tears in her blue eyes.

            “You’ll be safe, and you’ll send ravens,” she orders, but it sounds more like begging.

            “Don’t worry yourself, Lady Stark,” he says against her hair. He tells himself he’s taking a deep breath for his health, but truly, he just wishes to breathe in the scent of her hair.

            “I’ll do what I please, Jon Snow,” Catelyn sniffs, but she winks at him when she pulls away.

            Jon wishes that Sansa and Arya were here; Sansa with her calm demeanor, offering prayers for his safety on the road, and little Arya with her multitude of questions, demanding ravens the moment he gets there. Still, he tussles Rickon’s hair, and pulls a struggling Bran into a hug that the boy must feel too old for.

            “I want you to behave yourselves. Mind your lady mother, and the Maesters,” Jon demands, but knows that it’s futile when Bran wrinkles his nose.

            Robb gives him a new sword, mirroring the design of the one he’d had made for Arya before she left Winterfell. It brings a thick ache to his throat that he snorts away; still, he leans in for a tight hug from his brother.

            “When I take the throne, Winterfell shall have its independence,” Jon whispers in Robb’s ear. “I swear it, by the Old gods and the New. No king shall take its lord again.”

            “Just take the throne,” Robb shrugs, but there’s a bright fire in his eyes.

            “Be good to Margaery,” Jon winks, and Robb shoves him, and Catelyn rolls her eyes. For a moment, they’re children again, but then it’s gone.

            “Don’t worry about Robb. I’ll stand by him,” Theon promises, reaching out for a manly handshake.

            “You’d better,” Jon nods.

            Then he’s climbing up on a horse, the beast shying away from Ghost’s red eyes. Lord Tyrion is already seated, likely not wanting the embarrassment of climbing up onto a saddle in front of the people of Winterfell.

            “Do you suppose there are many whores at the Wall? They can’t truly mean those vows of abstinence, can they?” Lord Tyrion asks the second they’ve left the gates.

            Jon rolls his eyes. Clearly, it’s to be a long journey.

* * *

            The Tyrells arrive at Winterfell without much of the fanfare of the King. For this, Catelyn is glad. Winterfell’s stores are running low; or at least, that’s what her ledgers will show. For nearly two decades, her lord husband has been stock-piling goods elsewhere. With her family scattered, it’s comforting to know that Winterfell will not starve as long as the select few who know of the location survive.

            With any luck, she’ll secure this marriage alliance for her son, and the Tyrells will provide the bounty of High Garden as well.

            Of course, this all depends upon her boys behaving themselves.

            There’s a slight swear behind the closed door of Robb’s room, no doubt as he puts on the heavy tunic she’d had made for precisely this occasion. Robb has always prized comfort over style, something little Arya inherited as well, but today the rich material will serve him well.

            Catelyn swings the door open, and her breath catches. Her beautiful boy, practically a mirror-image of his father at his age. Her first-born, the one that taught her as much as she taught him. She means to say sweet words to him, and stern ones as well, to ensure that today goes well, but as she stares at him twisting about in the looking-glass, those are not the words that come out.

            “I’m nervous too.”

            Robb whirls around, staring at her in astonishment. His eyes are wide, and for a moment she forgets all the things she wanted to say to him, but then they flood back and she takes a deep breath, shutting his chamber door behind her.

            Idly, she reaches out to straighten a strap already perfectly straight.

            “I know that Olenna Tyrell can be a sharp woman, but she’s been nothing but honest in her correspondence with me over the years. Your lord father wouldn’t have selected Margaery if she weren’t to be the best choice.”

            “I know, Mother.”

            “Margaery has her grandmother’s intelligence, certainly. She’s strategic and cunning, but I’ve heard tell that she’s also sweet and insightful. I think she’ll make an incredible queen. You may have to dig a little to get past her surface, but that’s not a bad thing in times such as these.”

            “I know that too, Mother. I trust you and Father. I know you’ve had this grand scheme for as many years as I’ve been alive. I only hope that I do you both proud. And Jon. I worry for him. He’s alone in the world now.”

            “Jon will never be alone in this world so long as the Starks have breath,” Catelyn shakes her head, trying to rid her mind’s eye of the image of Lyanna, eyes blown wide, as Rhaegar laid the crown of flowers on her head. “Never, do you understand?”

            Robb nods tightly, looking away.

            “Now then. In just a few moments, the Tyrells will arrive at Winterfell. I’ll be taking Olenna to the solar, to have tea and to get to know one another.”

            “Is that ladies’ code for negotiating the marriage contract?”

            “Indeed. I do wish your sisters were here to entertain Margaery’s cousins, but we’ll make do with little Jeyne. You should ask Margaery to accompany you to the gardens and the godswood. Get to know her. Tell me immediately if she says anything that might hint to you that her loyalties lie with the Lannisters, do you understand?”

            Robb frowns, his blue eyes turning nearly silver as he turns away to contemplate what she’s said. “Truly? Do you believe they could?”

            “I believe that Margaery Tyrell is quite the catch, and I’m sure she’s certain of it. The Baratheons could wish for her hand as well; she’d do well in Dorne. I know that she is proud of her House, and wishes to see it flourish. She’ll hope for the best possible match to further her family. It’s not so different from the way we raised each of you to hold family close and to always work for the benefit of each other. Remember that some women are not born into families that honor them and give them choices. You must show her that her best possible future lies with you.”

            Robb turns back around, looking so much like a king and a little boy at once that Catelyn feels her breath stolen.

            “Mother? How did you learn to love Father?”

            “There was a moment,” Catelyn breathes. For a second, she can feel the breeze on her cheek again. “In the godswood. I’ve never felt like I truly belonged in that godswood, but I could see that it ran in your father’s blood. He took me there on walks quite often, when he needed to think especially. And one day not long after you were born and he arrived home from Robert’s Rebellion, he turned to me, and he said, _For so long I prayed for a loyal and loving wife, not knowing whether such a woman existed. I should have known the moment I saw your red hair, that you were chosen by the gods for me. After all, they themselves chose the color._ I knew if a man had truly been praying for me all along, that he must love me, and I him.”

            In the courtyards, the bells sound. The Tyrells have arrived.

            She gives her boy one last loving look, and then she shuts the door.

* * *

            Ned awakens from a dream wherein he is a raven, circling high above the godswood of Winterfell, watching his son make slow circles toward the center with a beautiful young woman.

            The red of the leaves makes him think of his sweet Catelyn’s hair, and he sighs longingly. How he longs for the fresh air of Winterfell; alas, he is here in King’s Landing, where he has been for several months and where he will likely remain.

            Groaning, he remembers. There is work to be done.

            Robert had been furious at the last meeting of the Small Council, wherein Ned had carefully relayed the news from one of his own “spies” that Daenerys Targaryn is betrothed to a Dothraki kahl. He himself had been quite furious over it; he’d had Jorah Mormont attempt to delay the marriage, and so far he has been successful, but Ned knows it is only a matter of time before Jon’s bride is sold to someone else. They should have attempted to smuggle the girl back to Westeros long ago; raised her just beyond the Wall, perhaps. Her demonic brother is no better than the old mad King, according to Jorah. He won’t care at all that she is technically already betrothed to someone else, nor that he is not the rightful heir, and her betrothed is.

            For months, Ned has been attempting to track down all of Robert’s bastards. None will be able to take the throne, nor does he wish for them to, but it does make him ache to think of Robert’s line entirely eradicated. Perhaps, if he can find a decent bastard, Jon could legitimize them in the future and talk Daenerys into taking mercy on the child of her usurper. He’s set to visit a smith today who is said to employ the last, and strongest, of Robert’s boys.

            Besides, if he can track down each bastard, and they all share the same features whereas Cersei’s children do not, then it will be the final piece of proof that he needs to present to the Small Council his allegations of incest.

            Robert had taken off on an impromptu hunting trip in an effort to cool off from the news about Daenerys; for days, the Red Keep has been silent and tense with the preparations for his return, and Cersei’s sullen glares at Ned. He knows the Queen suspects something, but so far she has no proof of any wrongdoing.

            He can no longer tell if the pain in his gut is fear or fatigue.

            Still, he offers his daughters a small smile as he joins them for the morning meal out on their balcony. Arya is sharpening her dagger under the table; he raises one eyebrow at her and she sheepishly hands it over to Septa Morgana as the woman places a slice of bread in front of her.

            “Honestly, Arya, you know better than to sharpen weapons at the table,” Septa Morgana admonishes, but Ned notices her lay the knife carefully to the side for Arya.

            Sansa reaches daintily toward the center of the table, and Ned watches carefully as she claims the second best pieces of meat and the ripest fruit after his own to load onto a plate which she hands to the Hound. He refuses to sit at the table with them, preferring to stand in the doorway to keep an eye on their quarters’ door, but Ned watches with no small amount of amusement as the Hound gruffly thanks his daughter and tries not to look too pleased by the place setting.

            “Who are you visiting today, Father?” Sansa asks.

            “A smith, actually,” he says, and prepares to say more, but of course little Arya’s eyes light up and she all but bounces in her chair.

            “Oh, Father, a smith? I wish to go! Please? I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll even wear a dress and pretend to only be interested in jewelry.”

            “Arya, you know you have sword lessons today,” he says, even though he hadn’t scheduled them, in an effort to redirect her.

            “Is one of the King’s bastards a smith, then? I bet he’s good,” Arya continues.

            Septa Morgana rolls her eyes. “Arya, you know we shouldn’t speak so openly.”

            “Apologies, Septa Morgana,” says Arya, who does not sound very apologetic at all to Ned. “Please, Father, might I go?”

            “We shouldn’t leave your sister here to busy herself all day,” Ned tries, one last ditch resort to redirect.

            Sansa smiles into her strawberry. “Oh, Father, I had planned on sewing with Myrcella all day today. I won’t miss my sister’s company for hours.”

            Ned glares at her, and Sansa beams at him.

            “Alright, fine, you heathens! Arya, you may accompany me to the smith today,” Ned sighs, and Arya cheers so loudly several pigeons take off from the roof.

            Sansa smiles, excusing herself to go pick a dress for her sister to wear while on the streets of King’s Landing. Dutifully, the Hound follows her, and Ned barely represses his grin when Sansa asks his opinion on fabrics, and the Hound grumbles, “How in the seven hells should I- Uh, that one, I suppose.”

            His daughter had wrapped the man around her finger within the fortnight, and Ned knows he chose well.

            Arya skips as well as she can in her cumbersome skirts, and Ned winces in sympathy when she trips on several of the stairs leading down to the city streets. Men jeer at his daughter until he glares at them, hand on his sword and Hand pin glinting in the sunlight. For all Arya’s ferocity, it may be worth it to consider hiring a sworn shield for her, as well.

            The area of the smith’s shop isn’t nearly so bad as other streets in King’s Landing; many of its clients are lords and lesser noblemen, so he feels comfortable allowing Arya to roam the storefront, peering intently at the various helmets and weapons.

            The boy, Gendry, shuffles shyly, curious dark eyes on Ned even as he answers each of Arya’s probing questions with both patience and confusion at her knowledge.

            Ned’s breath catches; he looks as identical to Robert as Robb looks to himself, and likely the same age. It makes him furious to think that this boy could have been Robert’s heir, and instead, the likes of Joffrey sit in the Red Keep.

            “Your father must be very proud of your work,” Ned says, eyeing a small dagger with a sapphire implanted in the hilt with genuine interest. It would be the perfect size for Sansa, and the Hound would likely approve of his decision to keep her armed.

            “No father, m’lord,” Gendry shakes his head.

            “Your mother, then?”

            “No mother either, m’lord. She died.”

            “I’m terribly sorry. Was this recent?”

            Gendry stares at him, something hard and confused behind his eyes. “No, m’lord. Barely remember her. All I know is she had blonde hair. Like the sun.”

            _Odd,_ Ned thinks. _Robert typically favors those that resemble my sister._

            Arya’s gasp distracts them both. She’s found a steel shield emblazoned with a wolf, howling at a moon far above.

            “ _Father!”_

            “I see, sweetling. It’s very nicely made, isn’t it?”

            “Oh, Father-“

            “Yes, yes. Ask the boy how much he wants for it.”

            Ned ends up leaving Robert’s first bastard with the new shield, Sansa’s dagger, and a pounding headache.

            When they reach the castle gates, they realize all Hells have broken loose in their absence. Guards swarm on top of the Keep, Maesters from every class wait for entrance by the doors.

            The Hound stands silently, watching until he sees Ned through the crowd.

            “Sansa?”

            “Safe; she’s praying with Princess Myrcella for her father’s health. I hate to break it to you, Lord Stark, but. It does not fare well for the King.”

            The courtyard begins to spin around Ned. No, not now. Not after all this time. He finally has the last piece of evidence needed to convict Cersei, and Robert has to go and die now?

            “What? How?”

            “It was a hunting accident… he got too drunk and got himself gored by a damned pig.”

            

* * *

 

            The letter shakes in Catelyn’s hand, written in Sansa’s script, stained with tears.

            Embedded within the language is a code they taught the children years ago; she is safe, she still has the Hound, but Arya fled King’s Landing alone, and her lord father Ned Stark has been beheaded after going to the Small Council with mountains of evidence of Cersei Lannister’s incestuous relationship with her twin brother. Included were statements describing each of Robert’s bastards, a genealogical recording in a Maester’s book, and a handwritten statement she’d worked painstakingly on with Bran. It hadn’t been enough. Robert had died, Joffrey took the throne, and then took her husband’s head.

            _I’m terribly sorry to have to write this to you, Mother,_ she reads, _but I implore you to please have my brother Robb bend the knee_ -

            The scream bubbles up deep inside Cat’s chest. The letter floats to the ground, and with it, the envelope it came in. She nearly tramples over it in her haste to reach her chamber door, but she notices the second piece of parchment tucked inside just in time.

            _To the Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,_ reads writing she’s never seen before.

            Grief and relief well up inside of her all at once; Ned, her damnable, loving, perfect husband. He had used his last moments to secure their children’s future, assuming she can find them all.

            Stannis Baratheon had written to her husband, pledging his loyalty to House Stark and ceding his right to the Iron Throne.

            Her poor, sweet girl had somehow managed to find the letter and include it.

            Carefully, Catelyn stands, pushing her hair back into its braid and trying to get ahold of herself. Her husband would not want her to fall to pieces; he would want her to grieve, but to also honor the plan they’d spent so long together devising. There had always been the possibility that things would end this way.

            And to think, this the news she must present to her son on the day of his wedding.

            Robb is busy with Bran and Rickon in the yard, training them hard even though he’s to be wed this evening, and should really be getting cleaned up by now. She allows them to go ten minutes longer than they really should; she can’t hold her tears in as she watches them from the bannister shadows. This is the last moment they’ll have together as brothers, the last moment when they will be her boys rather than a king and princes, the last moment, the last, the _last-_

            She pulls aside a maid and tells her to order the others to scrub her sons completely clean, and then have them report to their father’s solar.

            Then she seeks out her new daughter, giggling quietly with her cousins in her visitor’s chambers. Margaery had taken them all by surprise over the last several moon-turns; she was calculating and collected, sweet and charming, yes, but Catelyn had been very surprised by the intensity and concern on the girl’s face. Often, she thinks that Margaery and Sansa will make quick sisters.

            “A moment,” Catelyn says, ordering rather than requesting, impatient as the others curtsey.

            Margaery sees in Catelyn’s face that something is wrong. “Dear Mother, what is it?”

            Catelyn isn’t certain when the girl started calling her that. Recently, she supposes. Her own mother had died before Margaery could form memories of her. Her grandmother had essentially raised her. They’d considered many young brides for Robb over the years, but staring into Margaery’s fierce countenance, she’s thankful they chose her, in the end.

            “I do hate to spoil a bride’s happiness on her wedding day,” Catelyn says, wringing her hands as her voice cracks.

            She takes a deep breath as Margaery leaps up, allowing the girl to wrap her arms around her.

            “Whatever has happened, we will face together, as a family,” Margaery says firmly. “I may have yet to swear my vows to your son, but you all have been so kind to me I feel as though I am a Stark already.”

            It had taken a long time to determine when Margaery was being genuine or not. In the beginning, the girl’s obvious training in flirtation and charm had created a barrier between her and Robb that Catelyn had feared would spoil the entire marriage arrangement. Instead, after a long, unchaperoned trip to the godswood, wherein no chaperone had been needed to overhear the yelling row, her son had somehow managed to break through Margaery’s walls. The girl had faltered for a few days at first, seeming sensitive and skittish. And then she’d joined Cat for tea every morning, and had spent long hours in the library with Robb, learning all she could about the North.

            “My dear, I’m afraid you agreed to marry my boy, not a king,” Catelyn cries into Margaery’s long hair. She’s scented it with a sugary lemon oil, and the smell reminds her so much of Sansa that Catelyn cries harder.

            Margaery stills. “Your lord husband, Ned Stark. He’s not…?”

            Rather than answer, Catelyn hands her the envelope, still clutched tight in her hand.

            Margaery’s face goes white as she reads, then red with anger, and then quite thoughtful. _Queen, indeed,_ Catelyn thinks.

            “Whatever my lord husband decides to do, I will support him. If the North seeks its independence in the face of such treachery, I will march next to him.”

            “My dear, there is much you do not understand. But when you become family, we will tell you all. Be true; do you care for my son, or have you merely accepted your place?”

            Margaery blinks, the vulnerability on her face shining through. She doesn’t say a word; she does not have to.

            “Good. This is good. Put on your gown now, girl, and leave the telling to Robb up to me. Tonight, you’re to be Queen.”

* * *

            The godswood is silent and somber, warm even in Autumn. The red of the heart tree stands in bright contrast to the inky blackness of the sky, shining through with stars. Flame lights the path to Robb; Theon claps him on the shoulder, moving to sit next to Catelyn in the front row of seating. Robb aches. He rages. His gut roils with the need to pick up a sword and slice through someone else, preferably Joffrey Baratheon. One sister is missing, one held hostage, his father a headless corpse for daring to speak truth.

            Still, still, he thinks of his people, each Lord gathered here to witness not only his marriage but his coronation as King in the North. He peers down the path, anxious to see his bride.

            She does not disappoint.

            Margaery appears as a vision in gray, long gown sweeping fifty feet behind her, exposing her shoulders and back and midriff. Her long hair is loose and flowing in the Northern way, small braids throughout and one large one circling her head. A sheer, glittering, golden cloak rests against her shoulders, embroidered delicately with beaded gray roses.

            Robb is not ashamed to cry for his father, nor for his bride.

            Olenna Tyrell stands proudly as Margaery reaches the heart tree. She takes Margaery’s hand and kisses it, and glares soundly at Robb in a warning he reads well as he takes her other hand and draws her forward.

            He barely acknowledges the words of the Septon, barely feels the weight of his own gray cloak, trimmed in wolf fur, as he lifts it to place upon her shoulders, his lady mother expertly sweeping away Margaery’s gold maiden cloak. The faces in front of him are a blur, even as he turns after pressing his lips chastely against hers to seal their marriage.

            “I present to you, Robb Stark, with Margaery, Lord and Lady of Winterfell-“

            Here, there is a pregnant pause, the assembled crowd collectively holding its breath. Robb blinks, and is born anew.

            “- and King and Queen of the North, first of their names, first to reign in centuries. May they avenge Lord Eddard Stark, treasonously taken from us, and restore peace to our beloved homeland once more.”

            And then the heavy crown, molded to twist and curl its way into creating a snarling direwolf with a rose between its teeth, is placed onto his head as the crowd cheers.

            _“LONG LIVE KING ROBB, FIRST OF HIS NAME!”_

****

* * *

 

Ned Stark awakens to the roiling of his stomach in time with the small ship. He groans, rubbing at the knot on his head. He supposes he should be thankful it’s still attached.

            “Good morning, Lord Stark,” Varys smiles. Ned wonders how long the man has been sitting there in the dark of the ship like that, staring at him.

            “Indeed.”

            “Your plan worked wonderfully. You’re being taken to Essos, though I’m afraid not in time. Daenerys Stormborn is to be wed tomorrow. You’ll never make it.”

            “Seven hells,” Ned grumbles, swinging his legs over the side of the hammock. “And my girls?”

            Varys hesitates, and in that hesitation, Ned sees red. “Well? I swear to you, I will-“

            “Arya ran. No one could find her. Her current whereabouts are… unknown. Sansa is safe in the Red Keep with the Hound. Everyone believes the bloodied and beaten man they beheaded to be you, your children included.”

            Pain cuts through Ned’s chest. His poor family… thinking of Cat’s anguish is nearly enough to make him consider ordering the ship’s captain to turn about.

            Still, it was stay and actually die, or try to survive this second war long enough to actually make it home. Perhaps, with his guidance, Daenerys can still make it to Jon before it’s all over.

            “Good. This is good. Now Varys? Get the hell out of my cabin.”

            And then Ned closes his eyes in the dark.

 


	4. horizon for the stars

            Ned stares at the swarm of Dothraki, stretched across the plane as far as his eye can see. Jorah Mormont murmurs quietly beside him, listing the numbers required for feeding and transporting such a bunch. The heavy sun beats down against his shoulders; sweat trickles down his back. Ned is a long, long way from Winterfell, and his headache has yet to abate.

            “Where is she?”

            Jorah nods toward a large canopied tent in the center of it all, likely as close to a hall as he’s to see in this part of the world. Their horses make slow work of winding through the rows of tents. Meat Ned has never smelled before cooks over open flames; the heat is damn near unbearable. It’s no wonder the people here hardly dress.

            When Ned sees Daenerys Targaryen for the first time, she’s clothed in a linen top that exposes her slim arms and hips, light flowing pants, and her silver hair is back in a braid as thick as his arm. She’s on her knees on a table in the center of the canopied tent, and the people around her all scream in pleasure as she devours a horse’s heart.

            Ned thinks of Jon, all shy smiles and quiet nods, cutting his food into small pieces in Winterfell’s hall, and stares in stunned silence as the girl finishes. The largest man in the tent- presumably Khal Drogo, her husband- takes her in his arms and swings her about. She grins down at him, mouth smeared with blood.

            “Seven hells,” Ned breathes. Jorah nods grimly.

            The khal whisks her away afterward, through one tent flap and into another. Ned busies himself in the intervening hours with outfitting himself with new clothing, watching small children learn how to braid hair, and quietly mourning the loss of his family. Finally, Jorah comes to find him again.

            “The khaleesi is asking for you.”

            Rather than lead him to another tent, Jorah hands him the reigns to a large brown horse. Ned swings himself up, unused to the thick blankets rather than a proper saddle, and clings tightly with his legs as he rides out to the far edge of the camp. Daenerys sits on a stunning white horse, several bloodriders and Jorah himself several yards away in an effort to grant her the privacy she clearly wishes.

            Her face is free from blood; her hair is twirled into several intricate braids that disappear into the free-flowing locks around her shoulders. She is so small, almost like Arya, but her countenance reminds him more of his sweet Sansa, and more dimly of Lyanna. Beautiful, but with iron underneath.

            “Khaleesi,” Ned nods, the word strange on his tongue.

            “Ned Stark. I’m told you wish to take a new name here, in order to avoid being detected. What, then, shall I call you?” She still hasn’t looked at him, preferring to keep her back to her guards and stare out at the tall grass flowing in the breeze.

            “Ed is fine. Ed Stone. Though the less I am mentioned outside of your horde, the better, I believe.”

            “Ed. Alright then. I suppose you are disappointed to meet your son’s betrothed only to find her with child?”

            Ned’s eyes widen and he glances at her stomach, still perfectly flat. “I was not aware-“

            “No? And here I thought I’d instructed Jorah to tell you.”

            Ned stares at her, and finally she turns her head to look at him. Her eyes glint purple in the sunlight; her skin, probably naturally very fair, has been darkened in the sun. She looks so young, sitting there on such a large horse, that his throat aches.

            “If you think for one moment of harming my husband, I’ll have my bloodriders gut you.”

            “I’m not certain what you have been told of me, your Grace, but I assure you, I am an honorable man. I would never bring harm to you, Daenerys Targaryen. Though we have not met, since your birth I have thought of nothing but your welfare.”

            She stares at him for one hard moment, and then looks back out at the horizon. Silence reigns for long moments, until finally she asks, “Do you know what surprised me most about the Dothraki?”

            “Um. The heart eating?”        

            She grins. “No, I was well warned of that. It was the women. As it turns out, the Dothraki are quite the matriarchal society. Men are in charge of warfare, and not much else. Sometimes the women become bloodriders, but typically, they are responsible for everything else. Trade, making children, raising them, keeping the camps running, obtaining food sources. All of that, and sex too. I meant it when I said _making children._ Drogo would never have touched me if I had not enthusiastically asked for him to do so. And do you know why I did?”

            Stunned, and entirely unused to being spoken to so candidly, Ned shakes his head.

            “Because it was the only thing in my entire life I got to _choose_. You, Ned Stark, have been pulling the strings of my entire life. You sent me Jorah, and for that, at least, I am forever thankful. He’s been like a father to me, or perhaps, a much better brother than Viserys. You sent us tutors and supplies, for which I am also thankful, or I’m afraid I’d have grown up quite ignorant. You also, however, betrothed me to my nephew at birth. I’ve spent a long, long time wishing and wondering after him. Only, the other men in my life told me I could not rule in my own right, nor could I even ultimately choose to wait for Jon. I was sold to Drogo by my brother. I did not even choose to become a khaleesi before a queen. But I watched the other women with their men; and I thought, this, I might choose. I am going to birth Rhaego Targaryen, the Stallion Who Will Mount the World. And with or without Jon Snow, we will rebuild our family.”

            Without waiting for him to reply, Daenerys turns her horse and gallops back into camp.

            Ned can only stare, squinting against the glint of her silver hair.

* * *

 

            “And how do you answer, Lady Stark, for your brother’s latest treasons?”

            Sansa stares, blood feeling like slush in her veins, at the crossbow Joffrey points at her. With the slight press of his fingers she could be dead, executed on the floor, her head cut off after she’s gone and placed next to her father’s skull. Distantly, she feels her heart hammering in her chest, but can’t be bothered to truly concern herself with it.

            “Please, your Grace,” she cries, “whatever my traitor brother has done, I had nothing to do with it!”

            She senses Sandor shift in his heavy armor behind her. They had learned, with great difficulty, that he is able to intervene very little in these punishments the king so enjoys doling out. If the king is not personally present, the Hound never allows anyone to raise a hand to her. This has saved her from the likes of Meryn Trant more often than not; but if the King is watching, the Hound must allow some blows to land, else they risk Sandor’s head as well and then she’ll be truly alone. Still, she knows how he rages each time, when he carries her back to her quarters and glimpses the bruises under her gowns.

            What about a crossbow? Can Sandor somehow prevent it from impaling her?

            “Your brother slaughtered an army of Lannister men; the Northerners then fed their remains to wolves, and slurped the marrow of their bones themselves!”

            Sansa knows for a fact that no Northerner has ever been a cannibal, and though she allows her lips to wobble on her face and more tears to fall, on the inside she is exultant. She thinks of the way her body used to ache when her brothers trained her to use a dagger, and how her father told her to be brave. She will accept a thousand beatings as long as Robb continues his march toward King’s Landing.

            She imagines Lady delicately chewing a Lannister man’s wristbone, and feels as though she could turn to steel.

            “Killing you would send your brother a message, but my mother insists on keeping you alive,” Joffrey scoffs. “Stand.”

            Sansa climbs to her feet, careful not to trip on the long sleeves of her gown. Sandor had helped her pick this one; objectively it’s silver, but the color reminds her of Stark grays in banners, and she feels stronger when she wears it.

            “There are other ways of sending your brother a message. Meryn,” Joffrey calls, and Sansa feels her stomach begin to flip. “Leave her face. I like her pretty.”

            Meryn slams a fist into her stomach before she has time to process the man moving; Sansa doubles over and is quite pleased with herself when she doesn’t vomit. He removes his sword and knocks her to her knees again, and she wonders briefly what the point of having her stand at all was. She knows Sandor is shifting restlessly, hand on his sword, and briefly she turns her head to seek out his eyes. He’s the only one in court that never looks away from her pain.

            He mouths something to her that she doesn’t have time to make out before Joffrey says, “My lady is overdressed.”

            Of course, of course. She won’t be able to keep her silvery Stark armor. Meryn grips the back of her dress so tightly the hem cuts into her collar bones and rips it from her shoulders. Desperately, she grabs at the front in an attempt to preserve her modesty, but one sleeve falls and exposes her entire back to the man’s sword.

            Ser Meryn manages to land a few stinging blows with the sword; Sansa goes somewhere else in her head. She’s Lady, running through a deep forest with Nymeria. She’s her mother, calmly sitting at a desk and writing letters to assist Robb. She’s Arya, free from King’s Landing on her way back North. She’s Jon, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, silent and on the edge of the world.

            She feels a slice rather than a blow as Meryn’s sword lands at the wrong angle, and then something wet; blood pools and stains the bottom of her dress.

            Somewhere far away, a voice calls out, “What is the meaning of this?!”

            Sansa tries valiantly to return to herself, but cannot. She knows she’s gasping in air too quickly; through the blur of tears, she watches as Tyrion Lannister makes his way toward his nephew and the Iron Throne. He says something else, and then Sandor is there, folding his thick cloak about her shoulders like a blanket. She draws it close, and she is the sister she’s never met, Margaery, Queen in the North.

            “Hound, why do you continue to serve Lady Stark? Her headless father cannot pay you.”

            “Sandor Clegane may only ever serve Sansa Stark because he is her sworn shield. He swore an oath before the gods,” Tyrion reminds Joffrey, and even the bloodlust inside of him is no match for the sudden titterings of the court. No one, not even the king, is beyond the laws of the Seven, and Joffrey knows it.

            She stands shakily, but attempts to keep her head high, as her lady mother would be proud. When she is dismissed, the Hound reaches out an arm, as gallant as any true knight, and she folds hers through his elbow, leaning heavily against him. Tyrion follows them out, along with her lady maids who she knows are Cersei’s spies.

            “Tell me truly, my lady; do you wish an end to this engagement?” Tyrion asks.

            Sansa thinks of Winterfell’s small Sept, breathes in Sandor’s scent next to her, the only thing that connects her past to her painful present.

            “I am loyal to King Joffrey, my one true love,” she says, and the Hound smiles a terrible smile.

* * *

 

            Jon stares at the man he’s currently holding at sword point and tries to recall precisely how he ended up in this situation.

             He had taken a liking to the Wall and the Night’s Watch almost immediately, for all its faults. Many of the men sent there were roughians and scoundrels, but some were oddballs or bastards or just a little slow. In Samwell Tarly’s case, he’d been much too bright and much too fat for his own father’s taste, and he had made fast friends with Jon.

            It’s Samwell’s fault, really, that he’s going to be forced to run this man through. Sam had gone and fallen madly in love with Craster’s daughter-wife, Gilly, and had been caught following Craster as he sacrificed a baby boy to the wights.

            “What could you possibly have to say for yourself?” Jon demands. Most of the Night’s Watch brothers with him and Mormont on this particular venture he had helped to train himself. They murmur in confusion, but make no move to stop him as he presses his sword more firmly against Craster’s throat.

            “I am a free man, and I do as a free man pleases,” Craster spits.

            “What touching last words,” Jon snarls, and shoves his blade through the man’s throat. He gargles gruesomely before dying, but his daughter-wives seem delighted.

            Jon grimaces, and takes his sword outside to wipe clean in the snow. The girls inside are already packing, a whirlwind of excitement at having finally been set free, though they were born on the free side of the Wall. Sam follows, and behind him, a wide-eyed Gilly cradling a tiny baby boy, the first in generations saved from the wights.

            “I’ll take what girls wish to go back to the Wall,” Sam says. “We’ll tell them that you’re coming. I’ll reach out to King Robb for you. Don’t worry.”

            “It’s not my brother I’m worried about. It’s this King Beyond the Wall. If I can’t convince him not to attack, we’ll have our very own bloody war on our hands.”

            “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Jon.”

            Somehow, Jon doesn’t quite believe him.

            In the morning, they burn Craster’s Keep and Craster along with it. After explaining the situation with the wights, all of the girls choose to go toward the Wall rather than farther north. If only the other wildlings were to be that easy, Jon thinks.

            He imagines briefly that he’s back at the Wall, biding his time, waiting for Robb to send a raven telling him it’s finally time for him to ride south and reclaim the Iron Throne. How long can it possibly take to sack King’s Landing? Still, Jon has been clothed, fed, held as an honored guest, gotten to speak with Aemon Targaryen, the only non-Stark to know his true parentage. Being with the old man as the gods called him home had been a blessing and a deep pain; what he had said was true. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, but he had not been, when he passed.

            He cannot help his brother fight in the south, but he can ensure that his kingdom will be protected from the wights. It won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne if everyone is undead.

            Somehow, it’s even colder here beyond the Wall than in Winterfell. Ice clings to Jon’s thick black cloak. He’s thankful he left Ghost back at the Wall; losing him in this icy landscape would be all too easy. The sleet stings his eyes as he presses forward, one foot after another, days blending into nights blending into new days, until suddenly, he can’t.

            They’re being attacked from all sides; arrows fly, there are shouts and grunts. The man he’s fighting is slim and small, but vicious. His hood flies from his face and Jon sees that his attacker is not a man at all, but a young woman with hair the color of flames.

            “ _Oof,_ ” he grunts as she shoves him to his back, but he rolls and kicks his legs just like he and Robb learned together, and then she’s the one falling, directly on top of him, where he secures her hands behind her back. He catches several sharp kicks to the shin, but ultimately is able to tie her securely.

            “What exactly in the seven Hells is this?” he gasps. “I sent a raven ahead! The King Beyond the Wall should be expecting us.”

            “He was,” the girl snarls. “We’re the welcoming party. My name is Ygritte. And congratulations, Jon Snow; you just captured yourself a wife.”

* * *

            Catelyn watches carefully as Renly finally, finally signs the treaty that her son had sent in her company.

            She isn’t sure why he’d held out so long; whispers of his reluctance to bed a woman had spread, and none had agreed to marry him. Great offense had lodged in her chest when he’d offhandedly commented that he’d considered proposing marriage to Margaery Tyrell; the utter lack of tact bespoke of a man ill-suited for king. His armies were dwindling by the day as his allies either fell to the Lannisters or bent the knee to Robb. Still, it had taken him three moon-turns to finally bend the knee by proxy and melt his crown down into liquid metal. His only strong-hold had been that Stannis already surrendered.

            Catelyn secures the treaty inside a leather tube, refusing to hand it off to her guards. Something like this is far too important. She longs to pack up her tents and get back on the road toward The Twins in the Riverlands. Still, she had agreed to one last feast and one last night at Renley’s camp, in an effort to keep the good peace between them and to ride out together come dawn.

            “I hear they’re roasting twenty ducks tonight, since rations are no longer necessary,” Brienne smiles. The large woman follows her back to her tent; a fondness has grown between the two of them in her time here, and Cat fears losing her calming presence. She reminds her so much of Arya, of what she could have grown to be, that it sometimes steals her breath away.

            Catelyn has already changed gowns, laughing at Brienne’s obvious discomfort in looking at them, by the time the screaming begins.

            They rush from the tent, though the men are already swarming, and through the folds see Renley’s body, throat slit from ear to ear.

            “I swear, it was a shadow, a _shadow,_ ” his latest lover is howling.

            “Nonsense!”

            “I swear it! It looked like… like a _Targaryen._ ”

            Catelyn blinks in shock and backs slowly, slowly away. Spotting one of her own in the crowd, she pulls the young man aside. “Pack our things; we’re leaving immediately.”

            Brienne is sobbing, pacing back and forth in front of the tent. “I failed him, I failed myself, I’m nothing-“

            “You are not nothing! You are not. You’re coming with me, and when we find my daughter Arya, you’re to be her sworn shield and personal trainer.”

            There, in all the chaos, Brienne drops to her knees, and Catelyn sighs.

            “I promise you will always have a place at my table,” she begins, and tries very hard to focus on the rest of the vows while all she can picture is her sweet Jon’s dark curls.

* * *

Arya stands with Gendry on the bow of the ship, trying very hard not to burst out laughing at the greenness of his face.

            “I hate boats,” he groans, and promptly wretches over the side.

            They’d spent many, many moon-turns wondering the countryside, always a step behind Robb’s army. When Lannister forces had nearly captured them, and roaming vigilantes had nearly killed them, they’d fled East. Just last night, they’d stumbled upon a man about to be gutted by Lannister forces, and Gendry had swung a large hammer, the only weapon he’d managed to grab from his old forge, and bashed all their heads in. Arya herself had jabbed her sword, Thread, through the backs of two men’s skulls. In thanks, Jaqen H’ghar had given them a coin, and bought them passage to Essos.

            “If I can’t make it North, might as well see the world,” Arya had shrugged.

            Gendry had shrugged back and said, “Whatever you say, m’lady,” and then she’d hit him.

            Sometimes, late at night, as Gendry snores on the floor of whatever meager lodging they’d found – he always insisted she take the bed – she wakes in a cold sweat, knees bent, thinking she’s back on the statue in front of the Sept of Balor, watching as her father is dragged out. His face had been so mottled she couldn’t tell any of his features from the other, but his dark hair had been long and tied in the Northern way, and it had tangled terribly when his head rolled. She’d leapt from the statue and ran straight for the only place she could think of where she might have a chance at protection; the forge where Robert Baratheon’s bastard made the most beautiful weapons. After explaining her father’s true intentions, and that he might be killed, he’d simply nodded and packed what little he had.

            Hatred boils thick and strong in her stomach. Only Gendry manages to pull a smile from her anymore.

            “It’s going to be alright. Essos isn’t as far as it seems,” she whispers, patting him gently on the back.

            “At least it’s a fairly large boat. Can you imagine rowing across an ocean as angry as this?”

            Arya grimaces as he continues whining, but can’t help but feel she knows precisely how that feels.

* * *

            The night crawls slowly across the plane. When first married, Daenerys had dreaded night. They hadn’t had much growing up, but they’d had a lovely house with a red door, and a lemon tree out front. It had been strong and sturdy, filled with the guards Ned Stark supplied and always safe. The plane seems to stretch on and on forever, until land meets sky, and she can never find the horizon. It had frightened her, at first, how the Dothraki sleep under the open sky. Now she loves it, and clings to the sounds of the night beyond the tent flaps.

            Anything to distract her from her brother, who has turned traitor, and found a witch to murder Renly Baratheon.

            “She was a priestess of light! She believed that I am the Prince That Was Promised. I am born of fire; I’m the dragon! How dare you question me? I had every right to kill a Baratheon usurper!” Viserys rages.

“Viserys, please!” Daenerys begs, as he holds a sword to Jorah’s throat. She notices Ned Stark’s hand go to his side, as though reaching for a sword that is no longer there. Mentally, she vows to give him Viserys’ sword when this is through, if he doesn’t kill them all.

            “No! No! I want what I was promised. He bought you, but he hasn’t paid for you. I want the crown. I want Westeros! I don’t give a fuck if our darling nephew is there. I am the dragon! I am the eldest! I am the r _ightful heir._ ”

            Viserys whirls, pressing his sword to her stomach. The tip of it is cold, and she feels the babe inside flutter in protest.

            Carefully, carefully, Daenerys sinks to her seat. The dim firelight ghosts over her brother’s face. She wants to cry, but that is not what khaleesis do.

            “Tell him I want what was offered, or I’m taking you back. He can keep the baby. I’ll cut it out and leave it for him,” Viserys snarls.

            Daenerys stares at him, listening to the soft murmurings of her translator in Drogo’s ear. Drogo stares at Viserys, all hard lines and carefully contained rage. She stares at her brother, trying to memorize him. She knows what’s coming next.

            “ _Tell him that if what he wants is a golden crown, I shall meld one to his head for all eternity,_ ” Drogo snarls. His deep voice sends shivers down Daenerys’s spine.

            “What’s he saying?” Viserys demands.

            “He says yes,” Daenerys translates. Well. Loosely. “He says you shall have a golden crown that men tremble to behold.”

            “Well that’s all I wanted,” Viserys says after a moment. “What was promised.”

            Drogo stands slowly, and reaches for her so tenderly Daenerys nearly blushes. His hand brushes against her stomach where their child grows. She meets his dark eyes, and when his khaleesi does not waver, Drogo mutters, “ _Seize him._ ”

            Viserys’s arm snaps the bloodriders grab him so hard, and he wails.

            “What? No! You cannot touch me. I’m the dragon, and I want my crown! I want-“

            Drogo promptly pulls several gold medallions from his belt; a woman dumps out their evening stew from a cauldron, and Drogo dumps in the medallions. They sizzle and melt instantly; no matter how Viserys screams and pleads, Daenerys just keeps listening to the gentle sound of the cicadas outside.

            “Look away, khaleesi,” Jorah advises, rushing to her side much in the same way he did when she was small and had scraped her knee on rough cobblestones.

            “No,” Daenerys shakes her head, and notices Ned Stark’s wide-eyed approval from across the tent, though he flinches at the sight of the flames.

            “A crown for a king,” Drogo growls, and she’s fairly certain those are the first words she’s heard him say in the common tongue.

            Then he’s spilling the cauldron over her brother’s head, and the gold melts to his skin. His scream is truly terrible, but short. The gold hardens instantly, and thunks when he falls.

            “Khaleesi?” Jorah checks.

            “He was no dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Daenerys says blankly.

            She follows Ned Stark from the tent.

            His pace is long and fast; she nearly stumbles, trying to catch up to him in the dark. Finally he stops just outside his tent, but keeps his back turned toward her.

            “I know what you’re thinking,” she calls. “But I’m not him.”

            Ned pauses, seeming to war with himself for a moment before folding her into a startling hug.

            “I never allowed my boys to look away, either. You’re no Aerys, but you are a khaleesi,” he mutters. “Now if you must excuse me, I should really go and vomit.”

            The Great Grass Sea is so black, Daenerys thinks, that she can no longer see the horizon for the stars.


	5. unburnt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry friends, my life got intense; I finished grad school, got some original work published, moved, and got a promotion in the amount of time I haven't been posting. 
> 
> Hopefully we're back on track! Thank you so much for loving this story. 
> 
> PS- Check out the new tags, because fuck that entire finale.

To Sansa, the days in King’s Landing feel like a whirlwind and a crypt all in one.

Cersei throws quite the fit when Tywin announces that he’s betrothed Myrcella to Trystane, Prince of Dorne. She’s to set sail for the south before the wedding, rendering her fittings entirely unnecessary. Sansa asks her quietly to accompany her to the sept to pray, and whispers all the wonderful things she knows about Trystane, assuring her that she will be very happy with the match someday.

At her sendoff, Myrcella hugs her a moment longer than she really should, and Sansa stares at the boat longingly. She wishes she could go, too. She wishes she had been with Arya the day her father was beheaded. She wishes Robb would sack this shithole city already. Her eyes fill with tears as her only friend in the city disappears on the horizon. Cersei does not cry, but she does give Sansa’s arm a particularly vicious pinch on her way back up the stairs. Sandor grinds his muddy boot into the hem of Cersei’s gown in retaliation, and Sansa barely represses a smirk.

Sunlight filters through the crowds; people line the streets and the rooftops, so many people that Sansa starts to feel like an insect trapped in a maester’s jar. Some call out to King Joffrey, mocking him in dulcet tones that she prays he can’t see through.

Of course, that becomes rather superfluous when someone flings dung and it hits him square in the face.

            She thinks in another circumstance, where her own safety was guaranteed, she might laugh at the look of disgust on his face.

            “Bring me whoever did that, so that I can kill them!” Joffrey screams, and then the onslaught truly begins. The common folk begin hurling trash, more dung, their own smelly shoes at the royal party. Sansa gasps, watching as Cersei and Tommen are whisked away; the crowd presses in against her, and Sandor draws his sword, facing the horde of angry people approaching them from the front.

            Behind her, a guard screams as his arm is torn off by the hungry mob, and the ladies accompanying Sansa pull her to the side. In seconds, hands are grasping at her arms, the neckline of her gown. She ducks into an underpass and runs.

            _Thrice damned skirts!_ she thinks, hitching them higher as she sprints. She’s no longer a daughter of Winterfell, able to run wild next to direwolves without losing her breath. In her heavy corset her chest heaves. Still, her fingers grasp at the holster always strapped to her thigh, holding her father’s last present secure; the glint of the sapphire embedded in the hilt of the dagger gives her a brief flash of comfort.

            She shall not die without fighting.

            She knows they’ve caught up to her; their footsteps sound too close. Sansa whirls, her red hair already slipping from its braids. For a moment she’s blinded by red, and then she’s sees them; four men against just her. Her death is upon her.

            Still, Sansa smacks the first man as hard as she can, grasping her dagger with her other hand. The man returns her slap, sending her sprawling to the ground. Her head rings. Still, Robb’s voice sounds in her head; _if you’re on the ground, you’re already dead!_

            Sansa rolls onto her hands and knees, much quicker than the rapists are probably expecting her to, and slashes at one man’s ankles with her dagger. Blood spurts forth, flying across her face. He falls, howling, and before the others can stop her, she plunges the dagger into his grimy neck.

            The slant of light through the old stone windows, the rage of the crowd outside, the straw clogging her nose; all of this, she knows, she’ll remember in dreams if she survives this. The man claws at his neck with one hand and towards her face with another, but misses as the life leaves his eyes.

            Then the other three men are on her. They’re kicking at her ribs, her hands, knocking her dagger from her grasp. One grabs her ankles, keeping her from kicking, while another pins her shoulders. Sansa screams, snarling in fury and terror. The youngest of the bunch situates himself between her thighs and then-

            Then he’s gone, lifted entirely into the air and off of her. His entrails spill out onto the ground in a slow slop as Sandor’s sword rents him in half. The remaining two begin to beg, but of course he shows no mercy. A throat is slit, and the other is run through as he loses his patience, furious gaze taking stock of Sansa’s loose hair, her ripped gown.

            Sandor’s eyes slowly fall to the man whose neck she stabbed, and she has a brief moment of satisfaction as he gapes. Then he bends and picks up her bloody dagger, strapping it back to her thigh so gently it brings fresh tears to her eyes.

            She takes the hand he offers and he hauls her to her feet, scanning her for any serious injuries.

            Uncertainty clouds her mind; she feels at once too aware of her surroundings and unaware entirely. All she can think is all of the things that she nearly lost. Later, perhaps that will be her excuse.

            She leans forward and kisses Sandor Clegane, square on the mouth.

            He grunts in surprise against her. Neither of their eyes close. She’s closer than she’s ever been to his blood, his sweat, his burnt flesh. His grip on her arms tightens to the point of pain, but she doesn’t pull away.

            Instead, she presses smaller, chaste kisses to every bit of his face that she can reach.

            “Thank you,” she breathes. “Sandor, thank you.”

            “Don’t thank a dog for killing rats. Come on,” he growls, and sweeps her knees out from underneath her.

            Her face stays buried in the burnt folds of his neck, ignoring Tyrion’s concern, Joffrey’s screeching, and the desperate rage of thousands even as she’s carried back into the Keep.

* * *

 

            Bran clings with practiced fingers to the highest tower of Winterfell, foot lodged securely in stone that hasn’t moved in thousands of years. The cold wind nips at his ankles and he sighs. Another growth spirt, then. Fantastic.

            On the horizon, Bolton forces march toward Winterfell.

            Securing his grasp, he allows his eyes to roll back in his head even as he balances on the rock. Summer trots with Nymeria through the forest surrounding the King’s Road and Winterfell. Through her eyes, he sees the glint of weaponry and the aura of greed surrounding Lord Bolton. His curly-headed bastard rides beside him, maniacal glint in his eye.

            Summer growls low in her throat, and Bran returns to himself.

            He’s never told anyone but Rickon about the visions.

            It’s strange enough that he can see through his direwolf’s eyes. Sometimes he slips into the minds of ravens or other forest creatures on accident. Sometimes he slips into Shaggydog’s mind, and holy Seven what a mistake _that_ was. But the other dreams are worse; in those, he’s himself, but he’s standing idly by while events from the past, present, and future play out before him. Entirely incapable of enacting change, Bran is forced to watch as Robb fights battles, Sansa is beaten senseless, Arya gazes at the streets of a wide city with blind eyes, and the dead rise slowly from the ground.

            He dreamed of the Boltons marching for Winterfell moons ago, and now here they are. Though they are supposedly of Robb’s army, they should be far South of here.

            Bran thinks of the boys that will burn in his place and feels his throat swell; but Lords do not cry, and for now, he is Lord of Winterfell.

            Bran scrambles down from the tower, moving perhaps more quickly than he really should. His fingers slip, a mistake he never once dreamed about, and he falls past the first landing. Something deep inside of his ankle pops when he lands, and Bran leans forward against the mossy stone, gritting his teeth.

            _There’s no time,_ he thinks, and runs as best he can toward Rickon’s chambers.

            Thankfully, his brother is alone. He’s still young enough to play with toys, small carved horses and knights wielding toothpick jousts. Bran hoists him to his feet by his armpits and drags him spluttering to his wardrobe.

            “Rickon, listen to me,” Bran grunts through the pain in his ankle. “Remember my dreams? The ones that come true?”

            Rickon goes still, halting in his indignance to stare wide-eyed at Bran. Bran swallows hard; his auburn hair and Tully blue eyes are so trusting. This cannot be a mistake.

            “There are bad men coming here to hurt us. We have to leave Winterfell.”

            “Father said there must always be a Stark at home,” Rickon whispers, lower lip beginning to tremble.

            “Father’s gone,” Bran hisses, throwing the heaviest cloak he can find around Rickon’s shoulders. “Let’s move. Don’t make a sound.”

            “Where are we going?” Rickon asks, rather than follow orders. The resistance reminds him so much of Arya that Bran feels a sudden ache slice through his chest.

            The two of them were always running through the crypts, finding passageways that had been walled up or were considered too dangerous to pass through. Always competing at target practice and racing alongside their direwolves. Where would Arya go from here?

            “We’re going to the Wall, to Jon, but you have to be _silent_ ,” Bran hisses.

            He tries to memorize Winterfell in its last moments of peace, tries to memorize the faces he knows he’ll never see again as he sneaks them beyond the confines of the walls. As the Boltons approach the front gates, Bran races with Rickon out the back.

            They streak past the godswood, beyond the old kennels his father had built for King Robb’s visit. Once deep into the woods, Summer, Nymeria, and Shaggydog join them.

            Rickon stumbles more than once, but he does not fall. They keep moving, splashing through creeks and crawling around fallen logs. Near nightfall, Bran knows that they should stop and rest but he cannot get the burnt boys out of his mind’s eye, and so carefully he hoists Rickon onto Shaggydog’s shoulders and clamors atop of Summer and they walk through the night.

            Dawn is breaking before Bran finds a cave well-hidden enough to soothe his paranoia. He makes a lean-to over the entrance; Shaggydog falls to the side, curling around Rickon protectively and both are asleep in minutes. Nymeria lies facing the entrance, muzzle pulled back in a permanent growl. Summer nudges his hand, and he gives her a distracted pat.

            When he finally falls into a fitful sleep, he dreams of flames licking at his skin.

* * *

 

            Margaery moves over Robb in a way so gentle his grip actually loosens on her hips and his face falls slack into something like rest.

            She bends forward and kisses his lips, moaning when his tongue twirls against hers. These Northern men; they’re incredible lovers. Or at least, hers certainly is.

            She moans, legs shaking with the effort of holding back, but oh, it’s worth it. _Worth it._ He never falters as she shivers through her release. He follows soon after, seed dripping out onto her thigh.

            Smiling down at the mess, she swipes a finger through it and brings it to her lips. “Good thing I’m already with child. Otherwise this would be a waste.”

            Her mouth is tilted in the way that she learned at eleven years of age, but there’s true affection blooming in her chest. Robb understands her, respects her, in ways that she’s never been shown before. Even on the road, at war, he shows her how valued she is. Robb never fails to personally serve her and Catelyn’s morning tea, or to kiss her sweetly before she retires to their tent.

            “We still haven’t discussed names.”

            “The pregnancy was only confirmed three days ago!” Margaery laughs. She swings her legs around him in order to curl up against his side, head on his chest. He strokes her long hair off her sweaty shoulders.

            “Promise me, if this battle should go poorly… promise me you’ll name him Eddard.”

            Her heart seems to falter in her chest. After such a wonderful experience, she can’t imagine her life without Robb in it. To wed another, to feel another man move inside of her… she can’t fathom it.

            “None of your other battles have gone poorly.”

            “This is the capital. It’s different. Promise me, love, please? Some way, somehow, Eddard Stark should be Lord of Winterfell once again.”

            “I promise,” Margaery whispers, eyes filled with tears. She wishes desperately that she could have known the man that inspired such love and loyalty.

            To break the tension, she adds, “But I’m calling him _Eddie,_ assuming it’s a boy at all! What if a little princess is born first?”

            It works. Robb’s eyes light up and she giggles obligingly when his fingertips slide up her ribs to tickle her.

            “A princess! Yes, my queen should like that very much. Margaery Stark, second of her name, I would assume?”

            “ _Stop it, Robb_ \- ha! Hm. No, not Margaery. Raya, maybe. Or Mariah. I like those ancestral names of yours. I miss Winterfell’s library.”

            Robb’s eyes soften; he draws her in for a deep kiss. “I promise, one day soon we will return.”

            “Yes, we shall. Because the battle is going to go swimmingly. The bastard king shall fall, Lady Sansa shall be rescued, and we’ll all be placing bets on Theon’s divorce by next moon-turn.”

            “You should give Theon more account,” Robb teases as he slides out of bed to put on his tunic. “I believe it’ll last a whole three moon-turns.”

            He kisses her long and deep, and she sucks on his tongue to force his groan, not bothering to redress. Sometimes when he strategizes long into the night, she leaves the candles burning and stares at the flatness of her stomach, imagining it swelling with child.

            Margaery turns her face to hide her tears when he straps on his sword; tomorrow, her husband will march on King’s Landing.

* * *

 

Tyrion is in the middle of listening to his sister gleefully report that poor Sansa Stark has finally bloomed into her first moon-blood when the doors burst open and several guards rush in.

“Your Grace-“

“Your uncle-“

“The traitor Robb Stark-“

“Ships on the horizon, Your Grace, and-“

“And an entire army marching for the capital.”

Tyrion stands, though of course this is overlooked by every other, much taller, person jumping to their feet. Cersei’s smile slips into a scowl so quickly his head spins and he must resist the urge to laugh; it would appear that battle plans, not wedding plans, must be drawn today.

He listens to several very idiotic people attempt to scurry to protect the city; most, he thinks, would protect the Red Keep adequately enough, but the entire city must be protected from being sacked or else they’re all fucked.

“Wildfire,” he gasps, the answer coming to him on about his fifteenth perusal of the map.

“What?”

“Wildfire,” he repeats, staring at the gold-cloaked King’s Guard circling his table and staring at him as though he has three heads. “There’s stores of it underneath the city. We couldn’t use it on land- too risky. But we just might be able to use it on the ships.”

Which is how, hours later, Tyrion the Imp finds himself clad in miniature armor, which his father had made for him in the hopes he didn’t prove entirely useless, and standing on the battlements as the sun sets. The sky is painted pink and golden; he prays fervently it’s not the last sunset he ever sees. He never enjoyed them as thoroughly as he should have.

Joffrey stands behind him, whining occasionally about the fit of his armor and the weight of his new sword. Robb Stark’s army swarms in the distance, and as Tyrion stares, his stomach sinks as he realizes that it’s only about half of his men.

Robb must know that the plan is a gamble; though he wins every battle, he suffers heavy losses each time. He’s yet to sway certain Houses of Westeros, and it shows.

Still, half of Robb Stark’s men is a force they cannot fight, and Tyrion finds his gaze fixed on the approaching ships, stags waving proudly in the breeze.

“Send it out,” he orders quietly as the last rays of the sunlight fade.

One lone ship slowly sails forward.

“One ship?” Joffrey demands. “Where are the rest of them?”

Tyrion wishes desperately that he could turn and smack him, but there’s not enough time.

The archer shoots off one flaming arrow to signal Bronn, waiting on a small inlet in the Bay; a flaming torch is launched upward and out by him, and then the Blackwater explodes in a rush of green fury. The sounds of the men screaming are horrific; one by one, the ships all sink to the bottom of the Bay. Few rowboats are deployed; he can see a swarm of men that must include Stannis spilling over the side of one of the ships further back.

Tyrion barely has a moment to process before men are spilling onto shore, screaming in fear and anger, rushing the Keep. Lannister forces spill out to meet them, including the Hound himself, though he’d put up quite the tantrum about leaving Sansa with the other ladies. Flaming arrows rain down on enemy forces; meanwhile, Robb Stark’s army roars as it barrages the gates.

Blood gushes out of men’s skulls, intestines spill out of torsos and onto the ground, and Tyrion watches it all, shouting calm orders as Joffrey rages nonsensically behind him. For one shining moment, he feels like a king himself; people are listening to him, and his plan is working. The Lannisters are holding their own.

And then the Hound rushes back inside as the wildfire makes its way to shore, grabbing for a cask of wine and spitting at the King’s feet. There’s a wildness in his eyes Tyrion has never seen before, and he watches in horror as the fire begins consuming everything in its path.

“Dog, I demand you get back out there and fight!”

“The King needs you,” Tyrion rushes. “We have to put the fire out or it will kill us all!”

“Fuck the fire,” the Hound spits. “Fuck the Lannister forces. Fuck King’s Landing. _Fuck the king.”_

Before anyone can stop him, the Hound surges forward and pushes Joffrey from the battlements. The boy has one brief, shining moment of clarity, wherein he realizes he’s falling and his scream is shrill and terrible. Then the wildfire creeping up the walls consumes him, and his scream is cut short.

Beyond him, in a moment that would almost be comical in a stage play, the two opposing armies on the beach pause to observe the corpse sizzle; then, the battle rages on.

Tyrion, at a complete loss for what to do, determines he must be closer. The King is dead, but Cersei and Tommen are alive and well inside the walls. The Lannisters have not fallen; besides, Sansa will be far better off with the younger brother, as was her mother before her. Grabbing the hilt of his small sword, Tyrion rushes down the stairs and into the fray, bringing the few remaining battlement soldiers out with him.

He’s struck down almost immediately; a sword slashes across his face, the banner bearing a fierce direwolf the last thing he sees.

* * *

 

            _“Jorah, Jorah, Jorah, I WANT JORAH!”_ Daenerys screams, and considers it a sign that she is lost to her pain when she remains unsure which language she screamed in.

            She has felt fists and teeth and the harsh light of the sun on her fair skin; she has felt the tear of riding horses for days on end, the ends of Viserys’s patience, and the sharp, serious longing for a home with a red door and a lemon tree.

            She has never, ever felt the likes of childbirth.

            Her babe inside her seems desperate to come to the world, pulling and pushing against her insides until she can scarcely breathe. Sweat rolls down her forehead, so steadily that not even the steady wet cloths of the women of the khalasar can keep up.

            “ _Drogo, where is Drogo? He promised me he would be here, he promised.”_

            “ _Just push, Khaleesi, this battle is yours!_ ”

            _“I can’t, I can’t, I need my family-“_

            To the immediate anger of the other women, Dany is vaguely aware of a tent flap opening. In the harsh sunlight stands Ned Stark, long hair now featuring several small braids that do nothing to complement his stern, serious brow. In his arms he gently cradles her dragon eggs, presents from her wedding.

            “Daenerys, I will stay with you, if you wish it. Also I brought these. I thought they might comfort you.”

            Blindly, Dany reaches for him. His name had been on the bottom of all the letters she learned to read with; he had promised her a life, and offered her help and protection when otherwise she would have none. Jorah and her husband had rode out yesterday to defeat a rival khal, and had yet to return. A Stark of Winterfell will have to do here in the desert.

            “ _Please, please, I am afraid- ah!_ ” Daenerys screeches. She thinks of her mother, alone after a bloody war on Dragonstone, screaming into a storm. Then promptly stops thinking of her, remembering she died this way. Her arms fly out and Ned leans forward, into the tent, supporting her by the shoulders and trying very hard not to look down.

            There’s incredibly intense pressure and one more burst of pain so strong Daenerys screams until her voice cracks, and then.

            Then.

            There’s the strong, steady cry of a small babe.

            Daenerys’s eyes fly open- when had she closed them?- and she moves with a strength she didn’t know she had left when she swipes the infant from her midwife’s arms. The tiny thing wiggles against her chest, smearing her skin with blood and fluid but she doesn’t mind. He’s utterly, completely perfect.

            And Daenerys still squats on her knees, alive and heart thrumming intensely.

            “I did it,” she breathes. “ _Rhaego, son of Khal Drogo, Stallion Who Will Mount the World. We did it!_ ”

            The women pry the boy from her arms again and Daenerys’s eyes follow him even through the afterbirth. He has dark skin, like his father, but snow white hair. She can’t wait to see him open his eyes; surely, surely they’ll be purple like hers.

            “ _He is perfect, Khaleesi,_ ” her bloodmaiden says, handing him back to her.

            “I know,” Daenerys whispers. “I know.”

            She refuses to hand him over anymore throughout the long day; she feeds him from her breast and strokes his downy-like hair, cuddling him against her chest as she dozes in the intense heat.

            Until bloodriders outside shout, and she can tell; something has gone terribly wrong.

            Despite her bloodmaiden’s protests, Dany stands and hobbles as best she can to the tent flap only to see Jorah, bruised and bloody, riding back into camp with Drogo’s body secured to his horse behind him.

            The world seems to tilt in an incredible way around her. Her sun and stars, her husband, her protector, father of her brand new child, is dead. Later, she won’t recall screaming, but she knows that she does by the deep ache in her throat. Ned stands behind her, holding her as gently as he can while still restraining her.

            All evening long, Daenerys watches their shifting, nomadic kingdom crumble as the funeral pyre grows higher and higher.

            “ _The Great Stallion took your father in exchange,_ ” she whispers to little Rhaego. “ _That is how these things go sometimes; life for a life. Blood of my blood. We will never see him again, little one. Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Not until the rivers run dry, and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves._ ”

            She repeats it until she can force herself to believe it.

            Sometimes that works in her dreams, too. Icy winter winds blow all around her in those dreams; blue flowers smell sweet, growing out of a wall of snow. Several moon-turns ago, she had woken beside Drogo in a cold sweat, dreaming of his ashes falling all around her.

            When the eggs next to her start singing in the starry night, Daenerys doesn’t question it.

            She picks up her baby and her dragon eggs, and walks calmly into the funeral pyre.

            Behind her, she knows Ned and Jorah both are yelling, begging her to come back, trapped outside of the circle of flames. Some of the bloodriders had captured hostages earlier, including the khal that had murdered her husband; he writhes in the flames, screaming until his lungs are burnt to ash.

            She looks down at herself and her son and they both remain unburnt.

            Carefully, Daenerys settles directly underneath the pyre, bending her head over her son and intending to whisper his future to him until the flames burn to nothing but smoke in the clear light of dawn.

            The sound is almost nothing, at first; just a small scratching sound, and then a weak hiss. But then Daenerys feels strange, strange tingles running through her entire body, and her very blood seems to boil in her veins. It scorches the earth as it drips with Rhaego’s afterbirth between her legs, to the ground below.

            _Magic,_ she thinks. _This is magic._

            Because her dragon eggs, supposedly petrified for hundreds of years, have begun to crack.

            The first one is black; as the smoke begins to curl into the sky, she thinks of all the stories Viserys used to tell her with bloodthirsty glee about Balerion the Black Dread. The little dragon rolls out of its shell and into her husband’s ashes before clambering up her back and onto her naked shoulder, tiny claws digging into her skin.

            _Drogon,_ she thinks, eyes smarting with tears smoke could never cause.

            The second is green, and the color reminds her of the green, lush lands of Westeros that she’s never known. _Rhaegal,_ she thinks, _for the future my son shall have that my brother could not._

            The third is the smallest, a creamy golden color the same as its former shell. The color reminds her of her brother’s hair, glinting in the sunlight when they were small and could still play in the courtyard of whichever manse they happened to be holed up in. _Viserion,_ she thinks, _for all that my brother was not._

            When Jorah steps carefully through the smoking piles of ash, expecting to find her body burnt to a crisp in the center, Daenerys raises her head, minding her suckling son, and stands to reveal her three dragons.

            Ned Stark, steps behind, is the first to fall to his knees.


	6. love, not fear

            Arya stares but does not see.

            No, not Arya; _No One. A girl._

            Not for the first time, a girl curses her own decision to visit the House of Black and White and take up a man on his offer to train her in the ways of the Many Faced God.

            A girl has not seen Gendry in moon-turns; granted, a girl has not seen anything at all in moon-turns. Too many; if her calculations are still correct, nearly a full year. She longs for the small, warm bed they’d been sharing over a forge, for the small animals he made for her out of scrap metal. He had been the only home a girl has had in years, and yet here she sits, on the corner, begging. What use had Arya Stark’s list been, if crossing a name off the list landed a girl in this mess?

            She knows the Waif will come today as well. The Waif comes every day to beat her senseless, but Arya- no, _a girl_ , damn it-  is getting better. Sometimes, sometimes, she lands a few blows herself. Even more rarely, she wins.

            Today is different.

            Today it is not the Waif that finds her, but instead a man; Jaqen H’ghar. A girl would recognize his unique scent of potions and soap anywhere. Quietly, she follows him through the streets, straining her ears to hear what most never can. His footsteps barely sound, certainly do not echo, and are difficult to follow, but now she knows how to separate the noise of the streets from the noises she most wants to hear.

            Sometimes she sits one street over from Gendry’s forge, just to hear the metal clang as he beats it.

            A girl ignores the enticing smell of cooking food, the stench of the fishing docks as a man leads her beyond them, back across the bridge to the House of Black and White. The cold air inside feels like the chill of Death compared to the Braavosi heat, but a girl does not hesitate as she steps inside.

            This is not the first time she has been here since going blind, but it is the first time that she does not sense the Waif anywhere near her.

            She hears the slice of a cup through the still fountain water, feels the iciness against her fingertips when H’ghar presses the glass into her hands.

            “Drink.”

            “A girl will die.”

            “ _Valar morghulis_ ,” he says, and she just knows he’s shrugging at her, damn him.

            “Piss off,” she snaps, and before she can think about it for too long, downs the water so cold it burns.

            It happens slowly. The darkness is front of her fades to a dark grey, then to a strange brownish shade. A girl holds her breath, waiting. The brownish shade turns slowly to a dark mottled red, and then finally to a crimson. The pain is nearly unbearable, but Ary- _a girl_ makes no sound at all, holding her breath through the blur as indistinct shapes finally blink back into focus. Tears are streaming down her face.

            “A girl has been given a second chance,” H’ghar states. He seems indifferent to the fact. “There will be no more chances.”

            “I understand,” a girl gasps.

            “Here,” he says, shoving a wad of clothing at her. To a girl’s disgust, it’s made up of a colorful skirt and netted apron, a loose blouse and seashell hair clips.

            “What the fuck is this?”

            “These are the clothes of Ariel. A girl must prove she can be No One, or anyone, without using any of the faces at all.”

            “ _Ariel_? Really?”

            “A boy called Gendry is quite fond of calling a girl _Arry._ It will be best not to confuse the two if anyone were to overhear.”

            Her heart begins beating strongly in her chest. There’s a sensation almost like falling deep inside her chest. “Gendry?”

            “You are to live with him on the docks. A position on a fishing boat has been secured for him, and living quarters for he and his wife will be provided. You are to sell the wares he brings back each day in a cart, as Ariel, and await our instructions.”

            A girl narrows her eyes, and the position is so strange to her unused muscles that she nearly cries. “Why bring Gendry into this?”

            For the first time, H’ghar seems almost thrown by her question. Finally, he answers, “One day a girl will know why the faces she wears are best suited for No One. Including Arya Stark’s face.”

            A girl snorts and turns to go, but H’ghar grips her arm.

            “Your eyes will blind themselves if you leave now. Sit in the back greenhouse for at least an hour.”

            The hour is torture in a multitude of ways. The clothing fits her perfectly, but she still hates it. Ariel’s hair, she decides, must be out of her way and so she coils it into two braided buns on either side of her head. Her eyes squint and burn; tears roll down her face every time she glances into the sunlight. She sits for at least ten minutes with her fingers pressed into their sockets, trying to stop them from feeling as though they’re about to pop out of her skull. Finally, however, she can begin to stand the bright glint against the glass, begin to appreciate the multitude of poisonous plants growing all around her and their colors.

            She darts out the door with a jaunty wave to H’ghar, ignoring the way he rolls his eyes.

            After nearly a year of being unable to see, a girl delights in the sights of the streets all around her. She finds that she loves everything, including the buckets of shit and the toothless old men that leer at her from alleyways.

            The docks aren’t very crowded by the time she reaches them; most of their inhabitants are out on fishing rigs; several of their wives sit outside the dormitories and cackle as they weave strong fibrous nets. For the first time in too long, she sees him; Gendry stands tall and proud, his hair slightly shorter than when she’d seen him last. He’s busy talking to an old man that points to her questioningly, but before Gendry can even fully turn, she’s leapt up and onto his chest, wrapping her arms about his neck. He’s shaking from emotion a girl prays he can hold in.

            “The young missus is pleased with your new work, I see,” the old man laughs, but he doesn’t seem lecherous so she lets it go.

            Without missing a beat, _Ariel_ turns and grins at him. “Thank you, milord. You won’t regret hiring him on. My Gendry is a hard worker. As am I.”

            “So I know,” he nods, and then turns abruptly, muttering about not bringing home strange women or too much drink and warning them that they’ll be let go first thing if they sleep through the morning horn.

            The room he shows them to is actually fairly generous; it has a separate section with a large straw mattress for sleeping, a small counter for cooking meals, and a window overlooking the water outside.

            “Be up before dawn,” he nods at them, and then shuts the door with a quiet thud.

            Before she can move, Gendry is on her, scooping her up in his strong arms as though she weighs but a feather. He presses his face against her neck, and she’s startled when she feels wetness forming there.

            “I thought I’d lost you for good,” he whispers.

            There are so many ways she wishes to respond, all of them so very _Arya_ that she begins to think perhaps it’s better to say nothing at all, but then he draws away, his watery blue eyes staring down into her gray.

            She can _see him,_ and as she breathes in the smell of him, she comes to a startling realization.

            “It was you,” she breathes in wonder. “You were the one that came every day and dropped enough coin into my jar for me to eat.”

            He frowns. “Of course. I was horrified when I realized what they’d done to you. I could tell they were watching you, though, and I was warned to stay away. So I limited myself to once per day, checking in on you. Making sure you were surviving. It helped that you stayed close to the forge.”

            “Why did they give me back my eyes, Gendry?”

            “I got desperate. Last week I told them who you are. That you’re not some Waif, but Arya Stark of Winterfell. I said I would risk sending a raven to the King in the North and he’d send fleets after you. Braavos doesn’t need that kind of attention.”

            Arya stares up at him, feeling first awe, then fear, then sheer rage streak through her. “You did w _hat?_ Of all the utterly stupid, bullheaded things to do!”

            She shoves him away and he stumbles back into the heavy wooden door. She thinks for a moment she sees a flash in his face of something she can’t quite name, but then it’s gone.

            “I would rather they kill me than watch you get beaten with sticks for one more ruddy day.”

            “I won sometimes!”

            “Not the point! You could at least pretend to be grateful, Arry.”

            The nickname catches her off guard, and so the words spill from her mouth without hesitation. They’re more painful than the Waif’s staffs. “If you died, I’d have nothing. I’d have no one; really, truly be _no one._ You cannot die. You’re never to risk your life for me again, do you understand?”

            Gendry still leans against the door where he fell, flabbergasted. Slowly, he stands and makes his way to the small cabinet in the corner. Inside, Arya can see more skirts and netted aprons for Ariel, Gendry’s old forge clothes and a spare set for fishing. Husband and wife’s possessions, side by side. Her throat aches and the feeling is so stupid.

            “The day they took you to train with them, they found me in the night and gave me these. I don’t think they want to harm you or me, Arya. I think they’re taking orders from someone.”

            And from the small cabinet, he pulls Thread and all of Arya Stark’s old possessions; her small bag of coins they’d pilfered all that time ago in Westeros, her old shirt and pants, even the old shield wrapped in leather to hide its finery.

            _“Oh,_ ” Arya says, entirely unable to think of herself as just a girl anymore. “Oh no. Orders? Who?”

            The tears spill out before she can stop them.

            Gendry drops her things on the mattress, promptly folding her into his arms again.

            “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. Alright? Together.”

            “ _Together._ ”

            She makes him leave the candle flickering through the night.

* * *

If she is being perfectly honest with herself, Daenerys can admit it; she had not expected the entire khalasar to follow her into the Red Waste.

            Follow her they had, complete with horses and tents, rations and cookfires, even a small wooden cage to hold her dragons. Daenerys leads them through the sand on her silver horse, well-watered and strong even in the intense heat. She cradles Rhaego in one arm, shifting him every hour to the other in order to hold her reigns loosely.

            If she had been a woman on her own, the khalasar may not have followed her, Irri had explained. But she is the Mother of Dragons, as well as the mother of the Stallion Who Will Mount the World. The khalasar had been proud to claim the Stallion, and they would follow him for life.

            “ _You should let me take the baby, khaleesi,”_ Doreah offers.

            “ _No. Try and feed Drogon again. I know they are hungry, but they are not eating._ ”

            Doreah frowns, but does as she is bid. Jhiqui smiles at Daenerys, but her eyes rest on Rhaego.

            _“I worry about the both of you in this heat, khaleesi. Babes and women are supposed to shelter in their tents for many moon-turns after birth. You were walking hours afterward.”_

            Daenerys had realized, upon emerging from the fire and promising the khalasar a future khal to replace Drogo, that she would need to choose three blood-riders and three permanent bloodmaidens. She had chosen well; Doreah, able to seduce and tease the secrets from men, Irri, able to translate Dothraki into the common tongue, and Jhiqui, the best with babes the khalasar had ever seen.

            _“We do what we must, Jhiqui._ ” Daenerys shrugs, but then Viserion screeches and her attention is distracted.

            “They’re still not eating,” Jorah murmurs after a moment. Between her three bloodriders and her two Westerosi men, she’s quite protected, she and her three bloodmaidens always riding in the center of a large group.

            Daenerys frowns and gazes beyond her circle, to the rest of the khalasar spread out behind her. Most look exhausted; several of the very young and very elderly have already fallen ill. Some of fainted of heat exhaustion. She has not lost a single member yet, but that moment might be coming very soon.

            “Ned,” Daenerys calls quietly, and he guides his solid black horse closer to hers. The poor beast looks ready to expire. “Ned, tell me; if you had been able to raise me as you had Jaehaerys, and teach me to be a queen, would you have told me to value the weakest or persevere with the strongest?”

            Ned frowns for a moment, sweat trickling down his face and into his collar. “I believe, Your Grace, that a kingdom is only as good as the conditions of its weakest member. Ruling through love and not fear will always get a king, or queen, much further.”

            _Love, not fear._ The kindest thing to do, then, would be to halt.

            “ _Blood of my blood! Cease forward! We will travel no further for now. Please, make camp,_ ” Daenerys calls. There are several confused looks; it is still early in the day and usually they walk until nightfall. Still, she hears the sighs of relief as the members call out the orders, and she knows she’s made the right decision.

            “ _Rakharo, Aggo, Kovarro, each of you take ten men and ride north, south, and east. Find civilization. We need more rations, supplies, and preferably a ship._ ”

            Aggo frowns. _“We will not leave you unprotected.”_

            “ _I have the entire khalasar, and my Westerosi men besides. I will be fine. Go!_ ”

            She watches until their horses fade into the horizon. By then, the sun is starting to drop. She folds herself into the tent her people have raised for her, smiling at the stallion painted across the flap. Rhaego cries when the dragons squeal, finally let free from their cage. She attempts to shush them both, but cries out when her own head throbs in time to the dragons’ hunger pains.

            “Khaleesi?” Jorah calls.

            “I am fine, Jorah. It’s just. I can. Well, I believe I can _feel them._ What they’re feeling.”

            Ned pokes his head around Jorah’s shoulder; the two men exchange glances, as though she can’t see them.

            “You know, my sons and daughters found direwolves in the North. I believe they each had a touch of the Sight.”

            “The Sight?”

            “Greensight, it’s called. In days of old, visions of the past or the future could come to those who had it. Now, I believe only wargs exist, maybe even my own children; those that can see into the minds of animals. Perhaps the Targaryens had a similar connection with their dragons.”

            Dany gasps, wide eyes landing squarely on Ned’s. “How?”

            “I do not know, Your Grace. Perhaps… Perhaps try staring into their eyes.”

            It sounds like a farce to her ears, but she’s willing to try anything. She thrusts a squalling Rhaego at a floundering Jorah and scoops Drogon off the ground. Raising the tiny, squirming dragon to her own height, Daenerys meets his little red eyes with her own.

            For a moment nothing happens, but then she feels that same burning, boiling feeling in her blood.

            _There is fire inside me_ , she thinks, and then she is staring back at her own slack-jawed face, and she is starving. All she wishes for is the taste of charred flesh.

            Dimly, she is aware of Jorah calling her name, and her son crying still, and she returns to herself with a jolt.

            “Of course,” she breathes. “They wish for _cooked_ meat.”

            “It worked?” Ned clarifies.

            Daenerys nods.

            She practices over the next several days; though her people grow restless waiting for her bloodriders to return, Daenerys herself grows more calm by the day. She can _warg_ , as Ned calls it, into each of her three dragons. She knows their distinct personalities, their preferences. She can communicate to them to stay close or send them scurrying under bedding to hide. At first they had been resistant, but now their beady eyes find hers, awaiting instruction.

            At night, they curl around her and Rhaego, and she can feel the fierce protectiveness as though it is her own.

            On the fourth day, Rakharo is the first to return. He brings back twice as many men as he left with; some had helped him to escape a rival khal, eager to join the ranks of the Stallion. Aggo returns next, reporting he found nothing but sand. Still, they feast well into the night, celebrating a safe trip. Daenerys grins and pretends not to hear the loud moans coming from Irri’s tent that night.

            On the sixth day, Kovarro returns. He bears a scroll, inviting the Mother of Dragons to the city of Qarth.

            At dawn, Daenerys faces the Red Waste and rides.

* * *

            Sansa wakes screaming.

            There are hands all over her body, her dress is torn, blood splatters across her face, into her mouth, she cannot _breathe-_

            “ _Princess_!”

            She is still unused to the title.

            “Fuck off, you twittering pests,” comes a rough voice, and Sansa opens her eyes to see Sandor standing in just a nightshirt in the doorway, obviously uncaring for the maids’ judgement. Darkness still cloaks the land behind the curtains in shadow; it is not yet morning.

            She reaches for him, and he slams the door in her maids’ faces.

            The ride to the Twins had been rough and full of peril. By the time Robb had secured Stannis and finally left the walls of King’s Landing, she and Sandor had been a full week ahead of them. Unable to stop, they barely ate or slept, instead choosing to get out of Lannister territory as quickly as possible.

            Sometimes in her dreams she is being beaten in front of court again; other times, her rapists catch her. Once they had reached the Twins and been given shelter by the Frays, Sansa’s mind finally had time to devote to the horrors she’d endured.

            Sometimes, her head rolls next to her father’s.

            She shudders in Sandor’s arms.

            “I won’t be able to rush in here to hush you once your lady mother returns, little bird. Forget about your kingly brother, besides.” Sandor’s warning is gruff, but his voice is soft.

            “I’ll have Lady back, then. She’ll stay with me and I’ll be safe.”

            “Reckon a wolf is better than a dog.”

            “Shut up,” Sansa groans, too exhausted to remember her courtesies.

            Unbidden, he reaches across to fold the heavy blanket back over her shoulders. He lies down next to her on top of it. On the road, she had slept under his cloak while he kept watch most of the night. He claimed he needed little sleep, but she had forced him to stop and take at least one nap a day, promising to scream if needed to wake him. She is quite used to his heat and his weight by now; as her sworn shield, why shouldn’t he protect her from terrible dreams as well?

            Not a damn thing in this world had turned out to be proper, anyway.

            Sansa turns and raises herself onto his chest to better hear his heartbeat before she falls asleep again.

            When she wakes, there’s a clamor in the hall. Sun is streaming around the curtains; clearly, they had slept far longer than they meant to.

            Sansa leaps up, dressing as best as she can without aid. Sandor sits up halfway through her brushing her hair, heaves a long-suffering sigh, and does up the laces on her plain gown, loaned to her by one of the Fray girls.

            “Allow me to dress, little bird, and I’ll be right back to fetch you.”

            He’s not gone long; by the time he returns she’s fixed her hair in the Northern way, one long braid like her lady mother used to wear. She drapes it across her shoulders, wishing suddenly she’d had the energy to ask for a needle and thread. A direwolf would look lovely across the collar of this dress, done up in a pale gold-

            Sansa blushes for no reason at all, and promptly puts House Clegane’s colors from her mind.

            When Sandor comes back for her, she enters the hall first and he falls into step behind her. His gait and his shadow are so familiar now, she wonders if she could ever stand to walk alone. He moves as she moves, never faltering. He is easily the best gift her lord father ever gave her.

            This proves especially apparent when an errand boy practically knocks her into the stone wall on his way between the castles, tossing a panicked _sorry milady!_ back over his shoulder as he runs. Sandor reaches out to steady her, and then catches her as her knees buckle.

            Direwolf banners are approaching over the far hill.

            “Robb,” Sansa breathes, eyes full of tears.

            They hadn’t been able to risk sending a raven back and revealing their location. Her mother and brother probably don’t know whether she’s even alive or dead.

            “Steady, Sansa,” Sandor whispers seriously.  Sensing her imminent embarrassment, he looks around quickly and then tugs her into a small alcove hidden by a tapestry.  

            “Sandor,” she whimpers, entirely overcome with emotion. Grief, elation, relief, joy all filter through her, leaving her knees shaking. He stares down warily at her tear-stained face, as uncomfortable as ever with her crying, and it strikes her that this might be the last moment they have alone for some time.

            “You protected me, as my lord father charged you to do. You ensured I survived even the very worst of it. I wouldn’t be waiting on my family to arrive here today without you. Thank you, Sandor.”

            She surges forward and kisses him for the second time.

            Unsure of what to expect, she’s positively delighted when he groans and slips his hands down her back to her hips. He lifts her with ease, until she’s pressed between the cold stone and his warm chest. Like the bird he names her after, something inside of her chest seems to sing. Heat rushes into places she did not know could feel.

            “This is dangerous, little bird.”

            “It’s the least danger I’ve ever been in,” she counters, shivering at the way his tongue traces the words as they leave her lips.

            Carefully, she presses one last kiss to his burnt flesh and then politely taps his hand until he sets her back down on the ground. Primly, she straightens her dress and hair, and then they fall perfectly into step in the hall again.

            Walder Fray accompanies them on horseback to the gates of the Twins. Sandor makes certain to place himself directly between her and the older man at all times; his stare is truly lecherous. Sansa ignores it entirely in favor of gazing with longing so severe it nearly frightens her at the approaching bannermen.

            Robb comes over the final slope first; his steed is tall and stately, and does not shy away from Grey Wind on one side, nor-

            “Lady!” Sansa cries.

            The wolf’s ears perk up, and she begins to run.

            Robb’s hair has grown longer, like their lord father’s. Next to him, on a beautiful gray mare, rides a woman Sansa has never seen before but she recognizes her immediately by the crown on her head; Margaery Stark, Queen in the North, formerly Margaery Tyrell. Sansa’s new sister. There’s a slight swell at the bottom of her stomach that brings tears to Sansa’s eyes. She’s more beautiful than even stories could say.

            Behind and between them both rides Catelyn Stark, face pulled tighter than she remembers it in memory. Her mother’s hair is done precisely the same way hers is; it’s like looking at a temporal mirror across the wide field.

            It’s her mother that yells out so intensely it startles the horses, her mother’s realization that triggers Robb’s own widened eyes, Margaery’s startled grin. Her mother gallops across the field, and Sansa cannot resist spurring her own horse into action.

            She practically falls from the saddle and straight into mud, but of course Sandor is right there to catch her. He falls to his knees with a grunt but Sansa barely notices because her mother, _her lady mother,_ is right there, reaching-

            Sansa falls into her arms, sobbing.

            “My girl, my sweet girl, oh thank the gods, _thank you, thank you_ - _“_ Catelyn cries.

            Then Robb slams into them both, somehow managing to wrap both arms around mother and sister. His tears fall into her hair and his boots stomp on the hem of her dress but she barely notices.

            “Sansa! We thought we’d lost you.”

            Once Sansa manages to catch her breath through the happy tears, she turns her head to grin up at him. “You sacked the city, Robb! It was brilliant!”

            “Sort of,” he grumbles.

            “It was. We couldn’t have got away otherwise.”

            “Ah.” Robb straightens, looking over her shoulder at Sandor. “Yes, of course. House Stark owes House Clegane a large debt. If it weren’t for your sworn oath, I’d offer you any lands and marriage in the North that you could wish for.”

            Sansa stiffens, her stomach falling at her brother’s words, but then Sandor snorts.

            “All I’m after is a decent meal at this bloody wedding.”

            Robb frowns, but then he laughs, and helps Sansa back onto her horse. Lady, meanwhile, has been prancing around them all, alternating between howling and yapping joyfully at Grey Wind.

            Sansa races her back to the Twins.

            Her mother and Queen Margaery hole themselves up with her in their chambers; Robb orders them not to be disturbed and insists on accompanying Theon to the kitchens to obtain a cask of ale before the ceremony. Apparently, Robb had promised Theon’s hand to the Frays moon-turns ago in exchange for safe passage. He’ll keep his army here while he regroups and Margaery passes the more delicate stage of her pregnancy.

            Margaery is really quite lovely, all soft and understanding smiles, harsh words for the Lannisters when Sansa details her time in King’s Landing, and witty jokes to lighten the mood when Catelyn becomes too weepy.

            Margaery finds a fine dress which no longer fits for Sansa to wear to the wedding. It looks more Highgarden than Northern; Sansa hesitates for a moment at the thinness of the fabric, but she has nothing else to wear and she’s spent much time learning not to insult queens.

            Catelyn sobs again when she emerges from the room divider. “Sansa! Why, you’re a woman grown!”

            Sansa stares down at herself, draped in a light gray fabric so pale it’s nearly white, encrusted with pearls near the very low neckline. Her shoulders are bare, and the dress does a strange sort of wrapping near her hips that makes her blush.

            “Don’t tell dear Lady Roslin I said this, but I believe our Sansa will outshine the bride this eve,” Margaery winks.

            Catelyn brushes the braid from her hair, leaving it in loose auburn waves that flow down her back. The silkiness feels strange against her bare shoulders.

            Near nightfall, Robb bursts through the door suddenly. A man is…. Giggling? Somewhere behind him. His eyes are wide and almost fearful.

            “Mother! I need you. Theon’s right pissed. I don’t know that he’ll even be able to swear himself.”

            Catelyn’s eyes narrow in such a way that Sansa almost feels a sharp pain of longing again. How she’s waited to see her family again!

            “Honestly, that boy-“ Catelyn begins to rage and kisses Sansa quickly on the forehead before dashing out into the hall.

            Margaery guides her back to the looking glass hanging on the wall. Sansa is taller than her, but Margaery more voluptuous, curves only accentuated by her pregnancy. Already, Sansa feels swells of affection for the woman. She carries the next Eddard Stark inside of her, after all, and she had not stayed behind in Winterfell when Robb marched South.

            “I hope you don’t mind,” Margaery smiles. “But I had something made for you. I wasn’t certain we would get you back, but I was hopeful when Robb marched on King’s Landing…”

            Margaery steadies herself on the edge of the bed and then bends to rifle through her trunk. From it she pulls a carefully wrapped package, untying the fastenings to reveal a beautiful silver tiara.

            “We only wear ours for special occasions. I figure a wedding counts. I wanted you to be able to match.”

            The crown is stunning, silver strands twisting around one another to form a direwolf clenching a rose between its teeth.

            “Oh, Margaery. I mean, Your Grace. Thank you. It’s stunning.”

            Margaery places it carefully on top of Sansa’s head, then links her arm through Sansa’s and guides her from the room.

            Sandor still stands right outside the door, looking quite bored and casting judgmental looks in the direction of Robb’s quarters. Theon is sobbing behind the door, now. Sansa feels a pang of sympathy go through her, but it’s replaced by intense heat the moment Sandor turns and meets her eyes.

            “Doesn’t she look like the perfect Princess, Ser Clegane?” Margaery asks with a grin.

            His eyes sweep over her, from her crown to the tips of her boots poking out from beneath the gown. He seems so utterly fascinated; he doesn’t even bother to correct Margaery on the title.

            She feels like a queen rather than a princess when she walks into the great hall, still feeling his eyes boring into her exposed shoulders. Sansa sits next to her family, giving Robb an encouraging smile at his exasperated appearance.

            The wedding, however, goes off without a hitch. Theon is subdued by the time he takes his place next to Roslin, a quiet girl dressed nicely in a beige gown. She’s very pretty, Sansa thinks. She hopes Theon gives her a proper chance.

            Sansa dances through the evening, first with several of the Fray boys, and then again with older lords who are primarily attempting to make her brother laugh. Sandor glares at each of them in turn, sulking in the corner with an entire cask of wine.

            She spins over to him once the night is nearly over. “You could dance with me, you know. You don’t have to pout.”

            “Fuck off,” he snaps. “I don’t dance. And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with a _princess_ like yourself.”

            Sansa rolls her eyes. “I saved you a treacle tart. I know you like them. It’s in the napkin next to Mother’s elbow.”

            Then she happily accepts Edmure Tully’s arm and skips back to the dance floor.

            Her mood comes crashing down however when she sees the same errand boy that nearly knocked her over waiting by her brother’s chamber door. In his hands are two pieces of parchment; both are marked _urgent_ on the outside.

            “I am sorry, Your Grace. I was told not to wait.”

            Robb reaches out, leaning heavily on Margaery in his drunkenness, and glances once at her lady mother; the entire family follows him into his chambers.

            The first parchment he hands over to Catelyn.

            “It’s from Jon,” she says immediately, recognizing the writing. Sansa watches as her mothers eyes grow wide and worried as she reads. “He’s requesting immediate assistance. There’s been an uprising at the Wall. Wildling conflicts are spilling over.”

            Robb hands Margaery the other, tossing off his boots and crawling fully clothed onto the bed. He tosses an arm over his eyes, defeated. “Of course. What else?”

            Margaery frowns. “This is from… a Lord Baelish? Of the Vale? He wonders if we are aware of two recent tragedies; the Boltons-“

            Margaery cuts off.

            Robb sits up, blue eyes flashing dangerously. “The Boltons _what_?”

            “The Boltons taking Winterfell,” Margaery whispers. Sansa gasps, stepping back and expecting to feel Sandor’s steadying hands, but of course, he’s not there. For the first time, he has not followed behind her. She feels lost, adrift, in a way she never has.

            “ _And_?”

            “And both Lady Lysa and Sweetrobin dying. He’s now Lord of the Vale… and he’s requesting the hand of Sansa Stark, to retake Winterfell.”

            This time, when Sansa takes a step back, she falls.


	7. banners

            Daenerys stares at the door where there was no door before, scarcely daring to breathe.

            How had things gone so wrong, so quickly?

            Her first mistake, she supposes, had been leaving her khalasar outside the city gates.

            Upon arriving in Qarth, the Mother of Dragons had been welcomed. Her, her bloodriders, a guard of twenty, and her bloodmaidens. The Dothraki had been given plenty of fine gifts, silks and furs and pottery and even whores. Finally able to rest, they had agreed easily to a stay of some weeks in Qarth. Ned had stayed with them, agreeing it was best not to be seen, while Jorah came with her as one of her twenty.

            Now, twelve of them are dead, and Doreah is no where to be found. Irri and Jhiqui had been hiding inside of a trunk with Rhaego, scarcely able to breathe.

            And her dragons are gone.

            “Khaleesi,” Jorah cautions.

            “If I don’t return, take Rhaego to Vaes Dothrak. It’s where he belongs. One day, the Dothraki will follow him across the sea to retake the Iron Throne.”

            “Please-“

            Feeling as though her heart is being rent in two, Daenerys carefully slips off her mother’s ring; one pearl, two. She hands it to Jorah, ignoring the way tears slip slowly down his cheeks.

            “Tell him his mother loved him more than life itself. Tell him that someday, when they’re large enough, his brothers will burn this place to the ground and find him. Tell him to give this to a khaleesi of his choosing, someday. _Promise me, Jorah._ ”

            Jorah nods, unable to speak. Refusing to look back, Daenerys grabs a torch off the wall and walks into a dark room full of doors. The one behind her slams closed, then disappears.

            _Choose a door. Only one leads to what you seek,_ a voice says, sounding in her head though no voice speaks.

            Daenerys feels that same boiling sensation in her blood; _magic._ Ned Stark’s tutors told her, once, that one of the dragon lords of Old Valyria had come here, seeking to recreate Valyrian magic. He hadn’t survived.

            She closes her eyes.

            Somewhere, through the third door, her dragons screech.

            Her eyes see what they see; darkness and chains.

            She opens the door.

            Inside, a cold breeze ruffles her hair. Gaping, Daenerys stares at the throne room in King’s Landing. It’s utterly decimated, missing several chunks of wall and a roof. Glass and snow crunch underneath her boots. She’s never felt cold before like this; she thinks, briefly, of her brother Viserys and his quiet, secret desire to see snow someday. An ache lodges in her throat, but then she sees it.

            The Iron Throne.

            Viserys had told her of it, too. How it had been forged from the swords of a thousand enemies. She had never been able to count that high; counting to twenty was a feat for her back then, one Jorah had always rewarded handsomely with sweets. In her mind’s eye, the Iron Throne had been more like a mountain, one with winding steps and a peak too high to see. Instead, it is just a chair. It looks rather uncomfortable.

            Still, Daenerys lays her torch on the ground. All her life, she has imagined sitting in this throne. Quickly, she climbs the stairs, reaching-

            _MOTHER!_

            Her eyes roll back in her head. Drogon’s tiny heart patters in his chest. His brothers stare at him in confusion and fear; there is a man with blue lips circling them like a dog.

            It only occurs to her that she can understand their screeches as she opens the next door.

            When she looks up, there is ice as far up as she can see. Snow whips in the air all around her; at first, she doesn’t see anything at all, but then there’s a Dothraki tent, beckoning through the freeze. She rushes toward it, heart pounding. This is the tent she shared with Drogo, the tent where Rhaego was conceived, where-

            She pulls open the flap, only to be met with the interior of a cave.

            A beautiful man lies naked on a thick black cloak, curled around a woman with hair the color of flames. Blood pools around her; she is obviously dead. The man doesn’t seem to notice. He sleeps soundly, and as Daenerys inches closer, she gasps with recognition.

            She has seen this man, somewhere in a dream within a dream. This is her intended; this is Jon Snow. _This is Jaehaerys Targaryen._

            “Jon,” she breathes.

            He sits up with a shock, wild eyes glancing around in the dim light to see her through the steam let off by a hot spring. Then his eyes go to the dead woman; he begins to moan, then sob.

            “I’m so sorry,” Daenerys offers, bending to touch him, but her hand passes through his shoulder.

            “I should have known, I’ll never- wait. What’s happening? I can’t feel you.”

            “I’m-“

            “You’re Daenerys.”

            “Yes.”

            With one last glance at the woman, he stands to face her. He seems unaware that he’s not clothed, or at least unbothered. She likes that. There are more important matters.

            “How is this happening?”

            “I am in Qarth. In the House of the Undying.”

            “ _Where?_ What’s that?”

            She doesn’t know what makes her say it. Daenerys eyes the dead woman and the words fill her mouth, as though she is but a puppet on a string. “Do you know nothing, Jon Snow?”

            Jon’s eyes widen in horror; he takes a step back, but slips in the blood on the ground. Daenerys reaches out to steady him, and this time, her hand makes contact. His skin burns where she touches it.

            “I don’t think we have much time,” she says. “I don’t think this is a vision they intended to show me.”

            He raises one dubious eyebrow. “How did you find me, then?”

            “Well, I saw a tent, beyond the Wall I believe, and I was looking for my husband.”

            She realizes what she’s said before he does, but then his eyes meet hers and she cannot look away. Ned Stark has told her much about this man, but he left out how devastating his eyes are.

            He breathes out, and his breath smells like the blue flowers from her dreams. “When are you coming home? To Westeros?”

            “As soon as I can. My dragons are not yet grown.”

            _MOTHER!_

            She winces.

            “Feed them well. I need you, Daenerys. The dead are coming.”

            She doesn’t have time to ask him what he means. The dead woman sits up, chest cavity still leaking fluid, but her bloodshot eyes are a glowing blue. She claws at Jon Snow’s shoulders; Daenerys screams and tries to drag Jon through the tent flap but-

            She arrives in the next place alone.

            The sudden contrast between heat and cold leaves her shuddering; she leans against an old stone wall to catch her breath. The air smells of the sea; it crashes against the shore beyond the rocky cliffs, a more brilliant blue than she’s ever seen before. A gorgeous palace juts proudly into the sky, full of arches and shining, colorful stained glass windows. Beyond lies a lush garden, full of every flower and bush imaginable. In the center grows a tree with brilliant red leaves, a leaking face carved into the trunk. The castle’s door matches the red.

            Beyond the garden, an entire grove of lemon trees.

            “MOTHER!”

            Daenerys can hardly distinguish between the cries of her dragons and the cries of the children that rush toward her. _One, two, three, four, five_ , _six_ little heads bob as they rush up the path. They all have purple eyes.

            “Mother, Rhaego pushed me into the dirt again!” cries a little girl with black curls. The child is wearing Daenerys’s pearl ring on a chain around her neck.

            “It wasn’t me, Mother,” argues her Rhaego. He stands heads taller than the rest, and much darker-skinned; looking into his face is like looking at Drogo born again. Daenerys wants to cry out but the sound gets lost in her throat. “It was Jorah!”

            A little boy wrinkles his nose, freckles a sharp contrast to his white hair. “Was not!”

            _MOTHER!_

            It is the hardest thing she has ever done, but Daenerys turns and ignores the children’s cries, marching resolutely through the red door of the castle.

            She finds herself in complete pandemonium. The heat of the sun turns to the heat of dragon fire. She does not burn, but the women and children next to her do, and their screams are horrific. The buildings here are unfamiliar to her; the streets winding and narrow, almost impossible to pass as people sprint through them. Above her, a dragon’s shadow inspires new terror. Fire flows out and around, collapsing buildings and razing septs.

            When Daenerys looks up, it is her own face glaring down from Drogon’s back. Her eyes are twisted and contorted with smoke and rage. Drogon has grown into a great beast, Balerion the Black Dread alive again. His eyes hold barely half the intelligence that her baby’s eyes hold, and this is how Daenerys knows that this is a vision that will never be.

            She chokes on dust as another building collapses and a man’s head is forced from his shoulders, smacking into her thigh as she sprints away. His child screams in fear and pain next to his corpse.

            “Is this meant to scare me? I am the Mother of Dragons. Drogon is _good_ , and so am I! I am to be _Protector_ of the Realm, not Destroyer; and I swear to you when my dragons are grown I will not fly alone! _Where are my dragons?!_ ” Daenerys screams.

            There is no answer, so she throws herself through the nearest doorway even as a beam comes swinging down, so close to her face she can see the grain-

            She lands hard on her side in a room containing only a raised dais. On it, Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon are chained. Scrambling to her feet, she coughs dust that is no longer in the air.

            “ _Dracarys_!” she gasps.

            The Un-Dead man with blue lips does not have time to say a word before he is on fire.

            The tower burns all around her, but she does not feel it. Instead, she scoops up her dragons, tossing their chains at her feet. The last door leads to the sunshine, and this time she knows it is real because Jorah Mormont is standing there, still clutching her mother’s ring in his fist and still crying.

            “Daenerys!”

            “Sweet Jorah. Give me back my mother’s ring and come. We have gold to take and traitors to execute.”

            There is still snow melting in her hair.

* * *

 

            Jon wakes shuddering from the strange dream, rolling over instantly to run his hands down Ygritte’s body. No wound, no blood, no glowing blue eyes, just warm skin and soft red hair.

            He breathes a sigh of relief, collapsing back onto his cloak.

            “Already seeking another round, are ye?” asks Ygritte, voice muffled by sleep. She lolls over onto her side, resting her head near his collarbone.

            His eyes fill with tears. He knows, deep in his bones, that she won’t survive the night.

            He’d found Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall and former Night’s Watchman, to be a loathsome sort of man. He had denounced his brothers in favor of being free, and yet he solicited his fellow wildlings to attack Castle Black. He’d had quite a bit of support, too, until a group had arrived from much further north, badly injured and bringing tales of an army of the dead.

            Jon had ridden with Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, Ygritte, and a handful of others to confirm what he knew to be true from his ordeals with Sam and the other crows; that the dead indeed could rise and march against all living. They had barely survived the attack against Ygritte’s parents’ village. Seeing their reanimated corpses had been the first time he’d seen her cry. Seeing their reanimated corpses had broken Jon’s pride; he’d sent a raven for assistance to the last place he’d heard of Robb’s army being stationed, at the Twins.

            Mance Rayder had been unmoved. Though most of his own people had agreed to follow Jon back South and accept the aid of the Night’s Watch, many had remained true to Rayder, and had formed a plan to attack the Night’s Watch upon arrival. Jon had taken those he could, and rode south next to Ygritte and Tormund with instructions for Castle Black to raise the gate for them.

            Today is the day they march the final leg South and arrive at the Wall.

            Fear bordering on panic churns in Jon’s gut; what if he fails to keep everyone safe and peaceful? What if his best laid plans go awry, and it proves he is unfit to be King someday? What if he’s just put a bastard inside of Ygritte, a wildling girl no less, after dreaming of his betrothed across the sea?

            He heard Ned Stark’s voice in his head, then; _what if the clouds turn to fire and sparks rain from the skies?_

            Right, then. Questioning what might be is a waste of energy. There is only what is. And for now, at least, Ygritte is alive and curled warmly next to him.

            He smiles down at her, admiring the way her red locks sift through his fingers. She wiggles her eyebrows in a way the ladies in Westeros would never dare, and he chuckles.

            “No. Not another round. You’ve drained me.”

            “We could just stay here in this cave. Forever. Or at least long enough for ye to recover.”

            “No. I’m afraid we can’t do that, either.”

            Trying to memorize her, and wishing desperately he’d set in on Sansa’s sketching lessons with Septa Morgana all those years ago, Jon rolls away and begins dressing.

            The day is bitterly cold; is it nature, or the forces of the wights marching closer and closer? Jon squints into the onslaught of snow and ice, blinking fiercely to keep his eyelashes from freezing to his cheek. He huffs steam from his nostrils, and Tormund Giantsbane cackles at his expense.

            The Wall looms above them; from this angle it looks almost like a horizon line too high into the sky to be anything other than a mirage. He can understand how slighted the freefolk would feel; a large, ugly scar splitting the beautiful icy land in two. For a moment, his chest clenches and he squints hard. Ghost’s red eyes flicker over his own, though the wolf is standing idly next to Jon’s horse, and he sees it as the wolf sees it. The Wall flickers with magic so old and thick it makes his head swim.

            Then he blinks, and it is but ice.

            “We beat Rayder here,” Jon announces, turning back to address the large group of fearful wildlings. “But he won’t be far. We need to make it to the gate before he gets here; if he attacks while the door is open, the Night’s Watch will shut it and we’ll be locked out, probably forever.”

            “Women with children toward the front! Women with weapons, file in!” Ygritte calls, blue eyes glinting against the harsh white light. Jon’s throat tightens; riding next to her, leading a large group of people, her shoulders wrapped in his furs, she could almost be a queen and he the king. In another life, perhaps, he would be the next King Beyond the Wall and she much more than a spearwife.

            But he blinks that vision away, too.

            “I want the strongest men with the strongest weapons flanking all sides, with a small group in the middle,” Jon adds, and Tormund spurs his horse to bring up the rear.

            They make it halfway.

            There’s a terrible yell that rises up from behind them all, making the evergreens shake with the force of it. Mance’s army is technically less in size than Jon’s group, but Jon’s include most of the elderly and more feeble of the wildlings. He knows that even if everyone stays in rank, which they likely will not because they are wildlings and this is a Westerosi formation, they’re still going to lose.

            Still, Jon draws his sword and tries very hard to live through the onslaught. He takes down three men at once, knowing it will be far easier the longer he can stay on his horse. He moves then to scoop Ygritte into the saddle, but she snarls and rolls away from his grasp, taking one precious moment to glare at him before spearing one of Mance’s men through the eye.

            Alright, then.

            Jon whirls his horse around, attempting to usher what groups he can toward the open doors of Castle Black. They’ve yet to lower them, which he doesn’t understand. From their high vantage point, they have to see that while the sides are holding, enough of his men have fallen that Rayder’s army will be able to seep through. The middle cannot possibly hold for long, though Tormund has abandoned the rear to hack his way through the middle.

            Jon’s horse falls, and he remembers Theon’s boyish gasps when he rolls to the ground the way Ned Stark taught them to, always back on their feet. Their father had taken them to the hills in the dead of night, making them drill over and over so that the servants couldn’t see the advanced techniques.

            This is not quite the war his father meant for him to fight, and for a moment, Jon’s knees feel as though they are to give out. Four of Rayder’s men launch for him at once, and he raises his sword though he expects the blow.

            It never comes.

            Instead, there’s a similar eerie sort of yell as before, only it’s accompanied by the beating of horse’s hooves. Jon leaps to his feet, taking the heads of two men in one swoop only for _Stannis fucking Baratheon_ to barrel past him and take the others. Banners printed with stags streak after him, and beyond those, banners painted with direwolves.

            _Robb. Robb got the raven,_ Jon thinks, and then there is no more thinking, only the cutting down of men and women, the ushering of children toward the blessedly open gate.

            It doesn’t take Stannis’s men long to finish Rayder’s army and capture the man himself. The wildlings are no match for mounted bannermen and hard steel. Jon leaves Tormund as his second in command on the field, seeing it well taken care of, and knows that he is needed inside the walls to quell any tensions and negotiate the terms of the wildlings’ aid.

            He’s just turning around when he sees her.

            Ygritte lies gasping on the ground, arrow sticking out of his thick furs. For a moment, he believes it to be a fluke; perhaps the arrow did not truly pierce her skin. He sprints toward her, falling to his knees in the bloody snow. He slips his hand inside of his cloak to feel her wounds and it comes away drenched in blood. His ears ring; his mouth moves but he cannot tell if he is making a sound.

            “Told you we should have stayed in the cave,” she gasps. Blood, thick and red and terrible, pours from the corner of her mouth.

            “You’re going to be alright. You’re alright,” he cries.

            “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Ygritte whispers. Her breath rattles in her lungs. Jon wants to look up, look for help, look for something to make a bandage, but he forces his eyes to stay on her blue ones as they close.

            He remembers his dream, and swears they will never open again.

            He cuts the wood for her funeral pyre himself. He allows only Tormund Giantsbane to help him; apparently, the two had been cousins, and so Jon grudgingly allows her blood to assist in laying her to rest.

            “Our whole family has hair like ours,” Tormund says quietly. “I always thought hers was most beautiful. The shade of it. Like fire.”

            Jon thinks of dragons growing slowly somewhere across the world and wants to rage until the forest burns around him.

            He does not allow a single other wildling to be placed next to her. The others can have one mass funeral. Not her. She was his, and he was hers. Someday, he is to be King of the Seven Kingdoms, alongside a woman with hair the color of the snow falling all around them. Ygritte won’t have a single sentence written about her in the histories that will be written of him. She can have her own fucking wood.

            He stays until only her ashes remain, and then he walks quietly back to the gate of Castle Black, forcing the tears back into his eyes so that they don’t freeze to his cheeks.

            There are children to comfort and cots to hand out. Tomorrow, he will discuss with the Lord Commander where precisely in the Gift the wildlings should stay for the time being. Tomorrow, he will speak with Stannis Baratheon about what precisely is happening with Robb and his army. Tomorrow, he will begin putting the shambles of his life back together in an attempt to decide where to go. To stay with the Night’s Watch, or leave its protection to watch over the wildlings?

            But then Samwell Tarly stares at him from across the kitchens in a way that Jon knows means he has bad news, and Jon groans, smacking his forehead into the table.

            “ _What,_ Sam?”

            “Jon, I know you’ve had a terrible day-“

            “That’s an understatement, my friend.”

            “But there’s something you need to know.”

            He folds a piece of parchment into his outstretched hand.

            _Boltons have taken Winterfell. Whereabouts of Bran and Rickon unknown. Said to be burned alive by bastard Ramsay._

            Jon stares at the parchment, his vision swimming. Everything in him wishes for vengeance; for his brothers, for Ygritte, for his entire family, for the whole North. His grief tells him to rip the Boltons limb from limb, to take the wildlings and march on Winterfell, to rage until all seven Kingdoms know his name.

            _Fire and Blood,_ he hears his old maester murmur, the words of his true House.

            _Winter is Coming,_ Ned Stark whispers. He doesn’t know if the boys are even alive, but they might be. It’s likely they would head here, but if they couldn’t, they might have fled South toward the Twins. It wouldn’t make sense for him to take defenses and resources from the Wall to hunt for two dead boys. If he draws attention to the fact that they’re maybe not dead, then Bolton forces might find them first.

            Sam is still staring at his face nervously.

            Jon unclenches his fist and drops the parchment to the table.

            “Find me the best tracker amongst the wildlings you possibly can. Bring them to me. Go.”           

            It doesn’t take Sam long. The woman that’s brought to him has deep brown hair and a scar jutting across her forehead that doesn’t look entirely healed. Her clothing is ragged, one of the refugees from the far North, most likely. She is too skinny to be healthy, but Jon will send her with plenty of provisions.

            “You’re a tracker?”

            “Aye. Name’s Osha.”

            “Osha. I need you to find my brothers, Bran and Rickon Stark. They’ll likely be traveling alone, hopefully with direwolves.”

            Osha’s dark eyes flick to Ghost, dozing next to the warm fire. “It’s not hard to track one of those things.”

            “There’s gold in it for you, and a permanent home at Winterfell. Fair wages for as long as you want them besides. Room and board. Whatever you want.”

            Osha looks down and he notices her hands are bloodstained. He winces, casts about for a damp cloth, hands it to her.

            Slowly, she nods. “I’d have done it for less. You’re a good man. You treated my people fairly. All I want is a peaceful life. If you can offer me that, and fairness too, I’ll happily find the little lords.”

            Jon frowns seriously. “You have my word. You leave at first light.”

            Osha doesn’t make another sound, just disappears quietly into the inky darkness. Jon takes one more look at the crumpled piece of parchment and launches it vindictively into the hearth.

* * *

 

            Tyrion would very much prefer to be drunk, but he ran out of money several days ago and cannot afford even the most base of Braavosi wines.

            He’s been mistaken for a performing dwarf nearly a dozen times, has almost been drowned off a dock, turned down by no less than three whores, and tossed through a barkeep’s second-story window at least once. Now it’s storming quite ferociously, and he’s without a room for the evening. So far, he’s not exactly satisfied with his tour of Essosi cities.

            Deciding to stop for the street-performers’ show is probably a mistake, but he cannot help himself. The performance has been moved under a small pavilion, so at least it’s dry. They’re depicting the Near-Sack of King’s Landing, as it has come to be known, and the scene is Joffrey’s death.

            There’s a young woman playing Joffrey, which should probably not be nearly as amusing as he finds it. She screeches as she dangles only a foot or so off of a set-piece. Below her, actors depicting soldiers are stage-fighting with grunts and yells that nearly drown out the lady who plays his sister, Cersei, sobbing pathetically in a piece that he supposes is to resemble the Red Keep.

            The girl-Joffrey falls, throwing her hand to her forehead as she hits the ground, dying dramatically. The audience roars with laughter as the soldiers briefly stop fighting to stare at her. A heavy-set man next to Tyrion rolls his eyes.

            “As though anyone would stop fighting to stare at that shit!”

            “That really did happen,” Tyrion tries to say, but cuts himself off abruptly at the feeling of a dagger pressing into the back of his neck.

            “I don’t have any money,” he says quietly.

            “I don’t want any filthy Lannister gold,” a soft, feminine voice says. His blood freezes. This person knows who he truly is.

            “Come with me, quietly,” she says, and guides him back into the pounding rain. He can’t get a good look at her face.

            He’s soaked through by the time she forces him up a flight of stairs to a set of dormitories on the docks. The sounds of people arguing, cooking, fucking, crying envelope him, nearly enough to give him a pounding migraine on top of his hangover. The storm must have kept the sailors indoors today, a rare day without work and more than enough cover to hide whatever it is this girl is about to do to him.

            She shoves him into a generous room, and a strong young man with striking blue eyes looks up from where he’s carving a bit of wood.

            “Arry! What the hell?”

            “Do you know who this is?”

            “Should I?”

            “It’s Tyrion Lannister.” The girl shoves him, and Tyrion falls to his knees. She gives him no time to right himself; instead, she drags a chair over and binds him to it with thick fishing rope before he can even get his head on straight again.

            She whirls the chair around so that it’s facing the both of them, and for the first time he gets a good look at her proud jawline, her intense eyes, her thick brown hair.

            “Holy shit, you’re Arya Stark!” he gasps.

            “And they call you clever,” she snarls.

            He gapes at her, for once in his life without a word to say.

            “Now he shuts up,” she rolls her eyes, turning to Gendry and holding out her hand. With a long-suffering sort of sigh he sets aside his wood carving and hands her his small knife.

            “You already have a dagger,” Tyrion manages.

            “I use this one for carving out people’s eyes. It’s thinner,” she shrugs.

            He stares at her, astounded and terrified, but mostly impressed.

The large boy in the corner offers him a small nod of easy confirmation. “Really, mate, it’s just easier to tell her anything she wants to know. Although, given that you’re a Lannister, it’s likely she’ll maim you anyway.”

“ _Likely_. But first, tell me. How are you here, in Braavos, smelling of shit and wine?”

“It’s a bit of a long story,” he warns, and Arya Stark sighs as though she’s already bored.

“Make it quick, or else your death will be slow.”

The boy looks around sharply, and for a moment Tyrion is hoping for a bit of help, but then he plucks their spare sheet from the small trunk at the foot of the bed and hands it to Arya.

“Here, Arry, put this down when you start cutting into him; I just mopped.”

“Thank you, Gendry. Always so helpful.”

Tyrion gulps and begins speaking. “I was accused of murdering King Joffrey. Varys snuck me through the tunnels and onto a ship. He accompanied me here, to Essos, before setting sail for Westeros again. Very practiced, really, almost like he’d done it before.”

Arya’s eyes glint. “And did you? Murder Joffrey?”

“No. That was the Hound, actually. But I stood by and did nothing, and the Cersei needed someone to blame. She’s always longed for my demise.”

“The Hound? My sister’s shield?”

“Indeed. He guards your sister very well, my lady.”

Before he can blink, there’s a stinging pain on his cheek. Blood trickles down the collar of his shirt.

“You really shouldn’t call her that,” Gendry advises.

Tyrion swallows. “Noted.”

 “Start again. _Explain._ ”

“I was charged, the day of the Near-Sack, with coming up with a plan to protect the city. I knew if your brother’s forces breached the gates, that none of my family or my home would be safe. I did what anyone would do. Only, and I say this with sincere regret, I believe I did my job too well. I used the stores of wildfire under the city. My goal was mostly to destroy Stannis’s fleet. I believed, if I kept the fire contained to the Bay, then perhaps it would never make it to land. I was wrong. It destroyed much of the beach, the wharfs, the coastline. It was clear that not only were your brother’s forces too strong, but the fire as well. Lannister forces started to retreat, the Hound included. He said _fuck the king,_ and pushed Joffrey from the battlement. There was nothing I could do to stop him.”

Arya begins pacing, twirling the sharp little knife against the tip of her fingers. She’s tied the rope around his wrists so tightly his fingers tingle. “Go on.”

“I rushed down to the beach, determined to help the forces we had left. It seemed as though for a moment we might actually win, but then your brother’s forces came, allied with Stannis Baratheon. I was struck down; when I came to, I was safe in the Red Keep, albeit in a cell. You see, Renley Baratheon’s former army is in shambles. Some have formed vigilante groups across the Stormlands. Others, such as those my father rallied, chose to fight for the Lannisters rather than allow Stannis and Robb to overtake the kingdoms. They came to the aid of the Lannisters that evening, and beat your brother’s forces back. It was very confusing; stag banners were attacking stag banners. So he sacked the city, but he did not take the Crown. Instead, Tommen was crowned King, and I was charged with conspiracy to murder Joffrey. I told the court that I had not, but wished that I had. I was, naturally, sentenced to die. But Varys came to me, and told me he could get me out. I murdered my father on the way, and nearly drank myself to death on the ship. And that, my- er, _Arya Stark,_ is that.”

Arya is quiet for a long time. In fact, she turns toward the room’s small counter and begins making tiny sandwiches she shares with _Gendry,_ whoever Gendry is. The boy looks familiar, but Tyrion cannot place him.

His heart pounds quickly as he waits for her to decide what to do with him.

“Alright,” she finally says, and cuts the rope binding his hands.

“Alright?”

“Alright, you can go. It will be funny to watch a Lannister beg on the streets of Braavos.”

Stiffly, he walks back down the stairs, into the pouring rain. He’s utterly confused by that encounter, and still moderately hungover. Perhaps that is why he feels so uneasy when a black cat follows him through the streets, eyes narrowed.

He had thought Arya Stark dead for many years.

Somehow, he does not believe he’s seen the last of the not-dead girl’s face.


	8. the one who knows things

            “I hate this bloody room,” Margaery groans.

            “I know. I understand, my sweet. I wish you could have given birth at Winterfell, too-“

            “Every other Lady of Winterfell has given birth there and I’m the _fucking Queen!_ I want Robb to deliver me the Bolton’s heads on pikes, gods damn it-“ Margaery breaks off as another swell of pain sifts through her. She feels as though she is on fire; not even Catelyn’s gentle cooing or wet cloths can soothe the heat she feels.

            “Stop, Mother, stop-“ Margaery hisses, swiping at Catelyn’s well-meaning hands. “Where’s Sansa? I just want Sansa.”

            Over the past several moon-turns, Margaery had developed a fondness for the girl; Sansa reminds her of herself when she was younger, and yet is altogether different. She has a certain fragility and strength all at once that Margaery finds fascinating, practicality and romance combined.

            Sansa is capable of both helping Margaery review correspondence and offers of allyship _and_ giggling behind her napkin at the dinner table, which is why she is likely the only woman in Westeros Margaery trusts to both soothe her and refrain from annoying her further.

            “I’m here, don’t fret,” Sansa calls, stepping swiftly into the room. Her black gown billows out behind her quite prettily, but Margaery screws her eyes shut in order to groan her way through another contraction. She had known, abstractly, that childbirth is painful but now she understands _truly_.

            The pain comes ever faster; Catelyn hovers with her wet cloths, murmuring the prayers of the Seven, while Sansa examines Margaery underneath the bedding. She feels an extraordinary amount of pressure, her grunts turning to shrill screams.

            “That’s wonderful, Margaery, you’ve got it! I can see hair,” Sansa calls.

            “I can’t, I can’t-“ Margaery sobs. Spots cloud her vision.

            “You must! This child is the next King in the North, now-“

            Margaery cuts her off with another scream, the pain in her throat absolutely nothing compared to the pain between her legs. Suddenly, the pressure lessens and there it is; the sound of a newborn’s guttural cry.

            Sansa lifts the babe and places its squirming, wet body on top of Margaery’s breasts. She clasps the child with shaking hands, blinking tears out of her eyes to catch a full glimpse; beautiful dark Stark hair, stunning little arms and fingers, and-

            “Next Queen in the North, I suppose?” Sansa smiles, setting about wiping the babe down.

            “Raya,” Margaery gasps.

            “Raya it is! Oh, how wonderful. Excellent job, sweet girl. I’ll just go tell Robb-“ Catelyn is halfway to the door when Margaery suddenly cries out once more with a sharp stab of pain.

            “Sansa?” Cat asks, voice full of fear.

            Margaery feels panic for the first time since going into labor; is this it? Is she bleeding out on her birthing bed?

            “Take Raya, Mother,” Sansa says, gently but quickly moving the baby from Margaery’s arms. Margaery moans as another wave of exhausting pain rolls through her body and tosses her head back, unable to even look as Sansa lifts the bedding once more.

            “There’s another! Oh, Margaery! _Twins!_ ” Sansa gasps.

            The second comes much quicker than the first; Margaery barely moves her muscles as the babe slips out of her, crying just as loudly as its sister. Finally, the pain truly ebbs and Margaery collapses back, accepting one child in each arm.

            “Another girl,” Cat announces, softly stroking the babies’ soft downy hair.

            “Mariah,” Margaery whispers, and then her head lolls back and sleep claims her.

            When she wakes, it is dark outside where before it had been shining bright; Robb sits in a chair next to her bed, cradling both girls and looking at them with so much love and adoration Margaery feels her throat constrict.

            “I hope you don’t mind their names,” she whispers. “They’re both Stark names.”

            Robb looks up, eyes shining. His smile immediately puts her at ease; she hasn’t seen him grin this easily since their courting days. “Of course not. They’re perfect. You gave me not one, but two beautiful and healthy children, my sweet.”

            “But not boys,” Margaery notes wistfully.

            Robb nods, thoughtful, before looking back at her. “Aye, not boys. I suppose now is a good time to tell you; there’s a feast going on downstairs in honor of their birth. Canons are to be shot off soon, as well. When I announced Raya and Mariah, Princesses of the North… well. I announced Raya also as heir. I wish my firstborn to be Queen.”

            Margaery stares at him with wide eyes, distantly feeling her heart thumping through her chest. “ _Queen_?”

            “My father raised us to believe that women are as capable as men; you and my mother, and now Sansa have proven that women are strong and intelligent. The North is their birthright; and the North deserves a just ruler, not only a King.”

            “You honor me, Robb,” Margaery manages before she breaks down completely.

            Robb smiles softly at her, carefully standing and making his way to her bedside. Then he sinks down softly onto it, stretching out next to her until they lie side by side. He shifts one babe to her chest instead, and immediately she latches onto a breast. Margaery feels her breath catch.

            “Robb…”

            “Mm?”

            “There’s only one problem.”

            “What’s that?”

            Margaery stares at the two identical babies, one wrapped in white, the other in gray. Tiny blankets, embroidered by their Aunt Sansa with a direwolf. “How exactly are we supposed to tell which is which?”

* * *

 

            Daenerys marches through the row of crucified slaves and tries very hard to ignore their cries.

            After ransacking Qarth, she had sold what she could to obtain a ship large enough for her party. The sailing had been slow-going; they’d hit storm after storm, nearly been ransacked by pirates, and finally landed here in Astapor, rather worse for wear.

            “Sailing has never been my favorite way to travel,” Ned Stark sighs. He wears a heavy cloak even in the sun, attempting to shield his face from being recognized by traders.

            “I need an army more than I need a ship,” Daenerys says.

            “This is true,” Ned nods. “Are you thinking of selling it?”

            “Indeed.”

            “The price of one ship won’t gain you the Unsullied, _khaleesi_ ,” Jorah cautions, appearing at her elbow dressed in cool linen that Ned glares at with jealousy.

            “We’re out of gold. I need to feed my people.”

            The Dothraki gleefully unload their horses behind her; her khalasar is officially the first to travel across the sea, and she tries to commit their faces to memory so that she might honor them in the future. These are the ones that have stood beside her and Rhaego from the beginning. She will not forget.

            Nor will she forget the slavemaster’s brutality at their first meeting, the way they had mutilated one of the Unsullied. The slave girl had been extraordinarily tactful in her translations of the brute’s words.

            Daenerys could use tact like that.

            Still, it is nice to be in civilization once again. After ages in a desert and then in the isolated, small city of Qarth, the hustle and bustle of Astapor is a pleasant change of pace. She smiles when Ned delicately sniffs at a vendor’s proffered meat, and Jorah raises an interested eyebrow at embroidered leather water pouches.

            A little girl peeks out from behind several carts at Daenerys. She’s pretty, and her giggle sounds almost musical. Daenerys follows her to the edge of the dock, where she rolls a ball.

            Dany smiles and bends to pick it up; when she does, a strange insect-like creature leaps toward her face. There’s no time to move or even breathe; instead, she squints her eyes shut tight only to hear a clang of metal.

            A sword is sticking out of the creature; a man in a heavy cloak similar to Ned’s whips around and attempts to chase the small girl; she giggles and jumps off the edge of the pier, disappearing without a splash.

            “Khaleesi,” Jorah murmurs, helping her to her feet.

            “Ser!” Daenerys calls. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

            The man turns, slowly lowering his hood. Daenerys is stricken; he wears Westerosi clothing underneath his cloak and carries a longsword.

            “Seven hells,” Ned gasps, rushing past her. “Ser Barristan Selmy!”

            “Aye,” the old man nods.

            “He served in the kingsguard for Robert Baratheon,” Jorah tells her quietly. Daenerys’s blood runs cold.

            “Yes, I did,” Barristan nods. “But his wife beget him only bastards born of incest. He was not a worthy king, I’m afraid. And before him, I served your father faithfully, Your Grace. I am here to serve you as well, if you’ll have me.”

            Shakily, Daenerys nods. She can think of absolutely nothing to say, but she listens carefully as Barristan recognizes Ned, letting out a quiet grunt of surprise. Jorah takes her arm and allows the two to fall behind them as they continue.

            Apparently, Joffrey Baratheon is dead and his brother Tommen has taken the throne; Robb, Ned’s son, has done an excellent job on the battlefield and as King in the North. However, his forces have both turned against him, and there are too many external threats against him for him to risk any more men at present. Something will have to give before he can make another move.

            “My daughter?” Ned asks quietly.

            “Sansa fled King’s Landing during the battle. I do not know anything further.”

            Ned nods, sighing heavily, and Daenerys feels her heart lurch.

            “I wish nothing more than to sail to Westeros. Once there, we can right the wrongs done by the Lannisters,” she says, reaching behind to give Ned’s arm a squeeze.

            “I’m not certain that the Unsullied are a large enough army for Westeros, Your Grace,” Ned cautions.

            “Any army is better than no army,” Jorah argues.

            “Even an army of slaves? Is that what I am to be, a mistress of oppression?”

            Ser Barristan sighs. “Your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror did not ask politely for the crowns of the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace. He took them because he could. If you believe you can take back Westeros without blood, you may wish to reconsider.”

            “I will take only the blood of my enemies. Not of innocents. Are slaves not innocents? By definition, they have not _chosen_ this life. Ser Barristan, you knew my brother Rhaegar. Is this the sort of queen he would have wished me to be?”

            “Your brother was a kind man, and a good king,” Barristan admits.

            Daenerys stops walking, eyes staring out at the vast ocean without seeing the waves. She knows what Viserys would have done; what even Drogo would have done. She carries Viserys’s legacy, and leads Drogo’s people. Is that what she is, a vessel for the men before her? Or is she something else, something more?  
            She wishes for people to choose to follow her. Isn’t that what it ultimately comes down to? Choice? All she would choose for herself is her son and her dragons.

            _Her dragons._

            Daenerys frowns and swiftly turns. “Come. I’m prepared to make the Good Masters an offer.”

            She ignores the look the three men exchange behind her back.

            The masters wait for her in a courtyard with only one entrance, which she does not like. Slaves line the walls and peer down at her party through the hanging vines. This city is old, having stood four thousands of years, even before her ancestors crossed to Westeros. Daenerys notices the flimsiness of the translator’s dress, the heavy collar around her neck barely holding the fabric in place, and imagines the ancient walls around her crumbling to dust.

            Once, Daenerys had been dressed as such, sold and bought, very nearly used up.

            “I’ve come to request to purchase all of the Unsullied you possess,” Daenerys says firmly. She is thankful her dress hides the way her knees shake.

            Still, she keeps her face stony as the Masters insult her, call her a slut and whore, insult her people. Missandei tries valiantly to translate the men’s words more eloquently. They offer her less than two hundred men in exchange for all she has.

            “How do you propose to pay for the remaining 2,877 men?”

            “I have dragons,” she says coolly. Her heart clenches in her chest at even the words, but still she does not show it.

            This gets the Masters’ attention as well as her advisors. Ned rushes forward as though there is something to protect her from. Jorah begins pleading.

            “Your Grace, you will win the Iron Throne with dragons, not armies,” Barristan gasps.

            Daenerys glares at the three of them until they shrink back. Then she steps forward to face the Masters truly.

            “Three!” Master Krazniss demands.

            “One.”

            “Two!”

            “One.”

            “They want the largest one,” the girl translates and once again Daenerys feels that deep pang in her chest.

            If this doesn’t work, she could lose Drogon for good.

            “Done,” she says. “Also, I want you. You will be Master Krazniss’s gift to me.”

            The translator obediently waits by the entrance to the courtyard while Daenerys gathers her men. Daenerys snaps at Jorah and Barristan, rolling her eyes in Ned’s general direction before studying her. She keeps her head down, hands folded submissively, but her eyes are bright and intelligent.

            “Do you have a name?”

            “This one’s name is Missandei, Your Grace.”

            “Missandei. And do you have family? A mother and father, a homeland you would return to if given the choice?”

            “No. All my family are dead,” Missandei says blandly.

            “You understand that if you stay with me, I will be taking you into war. You may go hungry, or be injured, maybe even killed.”

            Missandei hesitated, her dark eyes on Daenerys’s face. Then something like resolve passes over her features. “ _Valar morghulis._ ”

            Daenerys smiles. “Yes. All men must die. But we are not men.”

            When Missandei smiles back, Daenerys feels a well of affection rise up in her. She reaches out and folds Missandei’s arm into hers as they reach the piers once more.

            “Come. You are no longer a slave; you are a free woman, free to make your own choices. Seeing as you have chosen me, I simply cannot allow you to wear this monstrous garment any longer.”

            It does not take them long to reach the edge of the city, where Daenerys’s khal has set up camp. It looks much smaller here than it did outside of isolated Qarth, full of several strong men but mostly women, children, and elders. Missandei takes in the tents with wide eyes but says nothing as Daenerys pushes open her tent flap.

            Rhaego plays on a rug, surrounded by his dragon brothers who carefully breathe rings of smoke around him to make him laugh. Daenerys’s heart clenches; all she loves, values, and wishes to protect is here in this tent with her. Her brave, noble, sometimes stupid Westerosi men murmur quietly to her bloodriders outside. This is her world, her life, but with any luck it is about to expand.

            Irri and Jhiqui sit quietly side by side on her bedding, but leap to their feet upon seeing her. They had worried after her when they dressed her in the blue of Drogo’s khalasar this morning, begging her not to go into a city full of slavers. Having once been Dothraki slaves themselves, Daenerys does not blame them. She gives them warm smiles, and reaches around to pull Missandei gently forward.

            “Missandei, these are my bloodmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. They were given to me as presents during my wedding to Khal Drogo; like you, they are now free and follow me because they so choose, and because they love my son Rhaego, the Stallion Who Will Mount the World.”

            Missandei nods nervously at them, eyes flicking toward Rhaego and the dragons with curiosity. Jhiqui smiles and bends to pick him up, though he kicks rambunctiously in an effort to get back to the dragons.

            “These are my dragons, Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal.”

            Missandei eyes her rather sadly when Daenerys reaches out to stroke their smooth scales.

            “Irri, fetch the men. Tell them to bring me a large chain which I can attach to Drogon. Go."

            Irri frowns, her brown eyes full of confusion, but she does as she is bid.

            “Jhiqui, take Rhaego to the edge of camp. He needs to be first to ride out if… if things do not go as planned in Astapor.”

            Daenerys watches with fondness as Jhiqui quickly gathers Rhaego’s essentials. Rhaego clings to her, and Daenerys leans over to give his soft forehead a brief kiss.

            Then she and Missandei are alone with the dragons.

            Quickly, Daenerys bends over her trunk and sorts through her dresses. Most of them they had looted from Qarth, but several her bloodmaidens had made for her themselves out of swathes of linen and indigo dye. She finds one which matches her own, done in the Essosi style but including a cape which will befit Missandei’s regal new status and grant her coverage she appears to never have had.

            “Here you are. This is yours now,” she says, handing it to the girl and watching her eyes go wide.

            “You are too generous, Mis- er, Your Grace.”

            “Nonsense.”

            Daenerys turns away to give Missandei privacy as she changes quickly, only turning at the clink of her thick collar hitting the ground. Together, they stare at it and Daenerys feels a wan hope begin to bloom in her chest.

            “It is true what they say of me; I am the Mother of Dragons. As such, I can communicate with them. It may appear frightening; I am told my eyes look a fright when I am in this state. But do not fear,” Daenerys warns, and then she sinks to her knees beside Drogon, who stares at her with knowing red eyes.

            Carefully, she feels for the edges of his mind against hers and slips gently inside.

            _Mother, Rhaegal bit me during play._

            _That was rude of him._

_He does not deserve horse this eve! Give him goat. A diseased goat._

_Drogon, I need to tell you something,_ Daenerys thinks quietly. And then she shows him in her memories her conversation with the Masters, and her plan.

            _This man is an evil man, and he needs to be stopped. This will be our first test at battle. Will you fly by my side, my son?_

            Daenerys feels the heat and anticipation well up within Drogon, and exits his mind as gently as she entered, knowing that he agrees with her.

            When her bloodriders show up to fetch him into his crate, Drogon calmly flaps his wings to rest on the top of it and present his leg to be chained.

            Rakharo stares in astonishment, but quickly clasps the link and opens the crate’s door for Drogon to crawl into.

            Their party is small as they make their way back into the center of Astapor. Her bloodriders carry Drogon’s crate; her Westerosis follow behind her with varying looks of trepidation. Missandei walks directly behind her, murmuring translations in her ear.

            Daenerys’s fear is gone. Her dragon is behind her, and the rows upon rows of men she walks through belong to her.

            She releases Drogon from his crate, grasping his chain and knowing that he’s plenty strong enough to rip it from her grasp should she so choose. She hands it to Master Krazniss, barely able to refrain from snickering as he immediately begins to struggle.

            “Is it done? Are they mine?” she asks.

            “It is done,” Missandei murmurs over Krazniss.

            Daenerys turns and observes the army standing before her. Eight thousand men, in addition to those in training.

            She takes a deep breath.

            “ _Unsullied! Forward march,”_ she calls in Valyrian.

            They do, the sound like hail beating against the ground.

            “ _Halt!”_ she cries and they stop.

            “ _You speak Valyrian?!_ ” asks Master Krazniss.

            Daenerys turns to smile as vindictively as she can manage at him. “ _I am Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen. Valyrian is my mother tongue.”_

Missandei’s smirk is as vicious as her own. Drogon tugs at his chain, and she can feel his impatience echoed inside of her chest, but first she must secure her men.

            “ _Unsullied! Kill every Master, every overseer, every man that holds a whip or stands against you, but harm no child!_ ” she cries.

            There is only a brief moment of panic from the Master’s and dimly she hears a call for her death, but she simply turns and meets Drogon’s eyes.

            “ _Dracarys,_ ” she says calmly, and Drogon rains down a siege of fire.

            He breaks away from the burning Master, soaring high and giving a terrible, shrill cry that sends shivers of pleasure down Daenerys’s spine. Unleashed for the first time, he glides high above the battlefield and breathes fire upon any who would try to pierce her flesh with arrows or swords.

            When the dust clears, Ned, Barristan, and Jorah stumble forward, looking upon the destruction with stunned eyes. Missandei follows her calmly into the rows of waiting Dothraki, where they have paused outside of the city. Her Dothraki wait at the front, already packed upon hearing the commotion and restless to ride.

            Daenerys searches for her beautiful white horse, still alive despite the odds, and feels Drogo’s spirit with her as she mounts the beast. She won’t be cutting her braid today.

            “ _Unsullied! You have been slaves all your lives. Terrible men have commanded you to do terrible things; I am neither terrible nor a man. And so I offer you choice; any who wish to leave may do so, and they will not be harmed. But if you will fight for me because you so choose, as free men, I can promise you that your brothers and sisters in chains will not be so for long; and together we will break the wheel of power that oppresses the many while uplifting so few.”_

            And Daenerys reaches out and drops the damned whip to the dirt.

            For one deafening silent moment, she believes that perhaps all eight thousand will choose to leave her; who, given the option, would continue to fight after such a life? But she does not wish to carry on Viserys’s legacy. He would beat, starve, and force them. Rhaegar, her brother, father of Jon Snow far across the sea? Noble Ned Stark, watching from his own dark horse, and hoping for a just ruler at last? No. This is the legacy she wishes for herself.

            If they choose not to follow her, it will be because she did not deserve it.

            But then the beating sounds; staffs and stakes banging into the dirt. Daenerys glances at Missandei and sees the proud look upon her face and knows; she has done it. She has won the allegiance of eight thousand brutalized and brutal men.

            Daenerys smiles, and follows her three dragons toward the sun, to the beat of thousands marching behind her.

* * *

 

            Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to steady herself.

            After the birth of the twins, things had escalated rather quickly. Renley Baratheon’s former forces had overrun the Stormlands and began patrolling the lower Kingdoms with Lannister forces. The Boltons had sent wave after wave of soldiers to attack the Wall, leaving Jon scrambling for defenses at the same time. And then the Ironborn, of all people, had decided that now was as good a time as any to declare independence and had started another rebellion.

            Theon left a fortnight before her with Roslin to attempt to quell his father and bring him back into the fold.

            Sansa had told her mother and brother not to worry, and set out for the Vale to meet Petyr Baelish.

            But of course, things couldn’t be that simple. Her brother could not spare many men, and so she has only twenty, including Sandor, in her company. Her handmaidens had also come along, also wearing the disguise that she wrinkles her nose at in the reflection bouncing off the dingy glass in the dingy inn.

            Sandor Clegane, unable to be captured after the Battle of the Blackwater, had instead been turned into a monster by the Lannisters, a scary story to tell children. The rumors were that he had raped and murdered Sansa Stark before throwing her body in a river, and that he roamed the countryside with bandits and whores, pillaging villages and raiding townships.

            Sansa stares at her dyed hair and the low cut of her black dress, sharp raven feathers jutting out from her shoulders. She takes a deep breath and makes for the stairs.

            This is the first time they’ve had an opportunity to stop; the men had been starving, the woods overhunted by the Lannisters, and they’d heard this inn had decent food. Sandor had bullied someone into giving up their room so that Sansa could have a proper bed for the evening, and the aches in her joints thank him for it already.

            No use putting it off, then.

            The inn is crowded, the night outside deep and black but the interior cast in a golden glow from torches. Ale overflows in mugs; Sandor is busy stuffing his mouth with what appears to be an entire roast chicken but he drops his food at the sight of her.

            “What unholy fuckery-“

            “Unholy is quite right,” Sansa murmurs quietly. She notices her handmaidens looking equally as uncomfortable in their loose clothing and shoots them a commiserating smile. “I’m supposed to be a whore, now.”

            “Sansa Stark is the least likely whore in all of Westeros,” Sandor grunts, and her whole body feels warm when she notices him drop his eyes away from her chest.

            Sansa grins and delicately twirls around to place herself in his lap. No other man in the inn pays them any mind; and at least on his lap she is safe from their groping hands.

            “Sansa Stark? Probably. But I am Alayne Stone, a bastard, and whore to the fearsome Hound.”

            Sandor rolls his eyes, but she’s pleased by the flush that appears on the unmarked side of his face. She sits primly in his lap, whispering jokes in his ear and giggling, but in her mind she is back with Margaery and the girls.

            They were beautiful babies, healthy and rosy sisters. Every time she looked at them, she felt a pang for Arya; if only she could find her, see her one more time. Her father had always said they were two sides of the same coin, but what would Arya say now that she was pretending to be a whore? Her, of all people?

            Sansa picks at her own plate, ignoring the way Sandor stares at her worriedly when she suddenly loses her appetite. She’s so lost in her morose musings that she nearly doesn’t notice the door to the inn banging open to reveal a horde of Lannister and Baratheon men, covered in mud and dripping from the rain that’s apparently begun.

            “Sandor,” she whispers. Even without her red hair, they’ll recognize his scars. So far they’ve been lucky out on the road, avoiding all altercations. If they’re recognized now, word will spread and eventually people will get suspicious. One sighting or two here and there would be alright, but so early in the journey? Perhaps they’d been stupid to stop here.

            “I see,” Sandor whispers back.

            “They don’t mind the other men, but they haven’t noticed us yet.”

            “I’m sorry, Sansa,” Sandor whispers and then his large fingers are turning her chin toward him.

            His mouth covers hers, and it is nothing at all like the kisses they’ve shared before; his lips feel hungry now. They move over hers in a way that makes her stomach clench, but Sansa remembers the words Margaery had whispered to her late at night, the lessons she would need to learn that Septa Morgana never taught her.

            Sansa leans into him, shifting backward to swing her legs around, suddenly thankful for the revealing slit in her dress which makes it possible to wrap her thighs around his hips.

            Sandor groans and yanks her closer, and suddenly she can feel a part of him, hard and hot, against her own wet heat and it’s _torture._

            Quickly, Sansa brings her arm up in a way she hopes looks natural to curl her fingers into the hair at the top of his head; her forearm hides the scars on his face. She breaks the kiss just in time to see the Lannister men gawking at them, and in a panic, yanks Sandor’s face down against her neck.

            His tongue finds her hammering pulse, then dips lower into the folds of her gown. She’d never known kissing could be like this, or that kissing anywhere other than the mouth would feel quite so exquisite. It’s nearly painful, how good it feels; she must resist the urge to squirm away.

            “Take me upstairs,” she breathes.

            “The fuck I will-“

            “Sandor, this is the only chance we have to escape unnoticed. Take me upstairs in a fit of passion and keep your head _buried_.”

            He grunts in understanding, but to her it sounds more like longing. He stands, sliding his hands up underneath her dress to grasp the backs of her thighs and keep her from falling. Sansa moans against his ear, ignoring the cheers and japes when he stumbles toward the stairs and the blessed dark.

            He kisses her neck, her collar bones, the beginning swells of her breasts and his tongue, gods his _tongue-_

            The door to her room, _their_ room, bangs open and he kicks it roughly shut behind them. Her hand is still buried in his hair; she yanks his face back to hers and revels in the brief power she has over such a man. She allows her tongue to glide out to meet his, and it feels filthy, kissing him this way but she supposes that for now she doesn’t have to care.

            Carefully, she tries something Margaery had only mentioned once, and sucks his tongue into her mouth as rhythmically as she can.

            Sandor moans against her, and now she _knows_ he longs for her. But then he drops her without hesitation, sending her bouncing into the roughspun mattress, suddenly cold and confused.

            “Sandor?”

            “Don’t you ever fucking kiss me again. I don’t care if I have to fight off a hundred Lannister soldiers. Never again, little bird. Do you understand me?”

            He looks half undone, standing there before her with his shirt untucked and his erection pushing against the fabric of his trousers. Sansa licks her lips and he snarls, leaning down over her to pound a fist into the pillow beside her.

            “Why not?”

            “Because I’m your sworn shield, and you’re a thrice-damned princess going to meet her likely lordly betrothed, that’s why!”

            Sansa stares up at him, unable to think of a single thing to say.

            “Stay the fuck away from me,” Sandor shouts, backing out of the room.

The door slams shut behind him, but Sansa can tell he does not leave the hallway beyond.

The words come too late. “You kissed me first!”

Her only answer is his harsh kick against the heavy wooden door.

* * *

 

Arya hardly ever sleeps soundly, but when she rests easy she’s always next to Gendry. Sharing a bed with him had taken getting used to, at first; sometimes he snored or hogged the blankets, or shoved her away when she pressed the cold soles of her feet against his hot shins. He always kept a hand out, steady on top of her shoulders, and the weight is what presses her eyes closed each evening.

Usually, he is gone before her, up early enough to board his fishing rig before first light. The fishermen here only trap during daylight hours; the surrounding marshes, islands, and reefs are too dangerous to navigate in small fishing boats by night. On days when it storms, he volunteers at the old forge he’d found when they’d first arrived here.

 _Ariel_ follows the set pattern of selling shellfish to her now-regular clients, using the downtime to memorize the streets and canals. Arya, however, notices the way her mind seems to slip into other creatures throughout her boring days, such as all the stray cats. Through them, she scours rooftops and flood drains, wiggles underneath carts and bridges, learning the secret spots of the city.

She wonders frequently what her mother would think of her, lying in bed every night next to a Baratheon bastard. She wonders what her father would have to say about her greensight, and her combat training, and imagines the way he would scrunch his nose up at her shellfish, having never been a fan of food from the sea.

She is so far from No One that she should have been assassinated by now, but the House of Black and White taught her to lie, and lie well. So far, neither Haqar nor the Waif have figured out that she does not prescribe to all of their teachings.

It could also be that she is useful to them.

So far, they’ve given her easy assignments; as the moon-turns passed, they’d seen fit to assign the collection of faces to her once more, and the use of them in turn. She’s murdered rapists and those that harm their children. Those are always easy. She’s taken the lives of elderly women who just wish for a bit of mercy from degenerative diseases. Those she performs with honor she thinks Ned Stark would be proud of. Once they assigned her to a politician, which had been harder when she’d stalked his family through their palace windows, but much easier once she saw the way he treated the smallfolk on the streets, the plans he was going to put in place for them.

This one… this one will be difficult. She’s been assigned to watch a travelling priestess, supposedly worshipping a Lord of Light, and to take her life when the time is right. Kinvara is her name, and Arya had very begrudgingly added her to her List after watching the woman donate food to the smallfolk and grant affectionate hugs at an orphanage in the name of her Lord.

Arya stares through the dark at Gendry’s face, dreading the reason she is to rise before him this morning, and traces his features with her eyes. Of all the faces she’s seen, his is her favorite.

The House of Black and White do not know how far she has regressed from their training, but they know enough to know to kill him if she does not do as they bid.

Arya sighs, and reluctantly rolls out of bed so smoothly Gendry doesn’t even flinch in his sleep. Rather than reach for Ariel’s clothing, she slips into black trousers and a black tunic, braiding her hair back into a single plait from the root. With an ache in her throat, she thinks Sansa would be proud of the tightness of the strands.

Rather than take the creaky stairs, Arya jumps from their open bedroom window to the balcony roof below, and then to the ground. Almost no one is on the street at this hour, and she enjoys the brief solitude.

It takes several hours to find Kinvara, traveling with her small entourage on the edges of Braavos. Toward the east lies the mainland of Essos, in the far distance a chain of mountains separating the Secret City from the rest of the world. Arya stares at them longingly for a moment, and then ducks into the small temple after the priestess.

The temple is local, built hundreds of years ago to bring grace to the neighborhood comprised mostly of bakers and farmers. Since Braavos gives its citizens the freedom to worship however they choose, it would appear that many different types of people use the space now that its old god has been lost to the ages. Arya watches as Kinvara disrobes entirely, standing so close to a roaring fire in the middle of the darkened room that her skin begins to turn pink.

“Is No One here to kill me?” Kinvara calls. Her entourage makes no move to seek out an assassin, but still Arya halts.

Not a single person has heard her, since she learned how to be silent. Not a single person has ever spotted her when she did not wish to be spotted. How…?

“Get on with it, please, before the fire dies. No One needs to know the will of the Lord of Light.”

Arya chances a glance at Kinvara’s people, but they keep their eyes on their priestess, hands folded almost politely.

Arya shrugs to herself and pulls out a dagger. Alright, then.

Without giving herself time to hesitate, and willing to do anything to go home to see Gendry’s laughing blue eyes, Arya plunges her dagger deep into Kinvara’s back, catching her before she can fall into the flames.

The woman slumps and bleeds onto the floor without a whimper.

Arya carefully and gently lays her corpse down, hating the slick feeling of sliding her dagger from the woman’s cooling flesh. She steps back, unwilling to look away.

Then the woman’s entourage begins to move, a second priestess appearing from the shadows to fall to her knees next to Kinvara. At first, Arya thinks she might be crying, but then she hears; the woman is whispering something in a tongue Arya can’t understand.

Within moments, Kinvara sits up straight.

“Seven hells!” Arya gasps, nearly tripping over her own feet for the first time in years.

“No hells, child. Just the Lord of Light,” Kinvara calls, voice raspy.

Arya clutches the bloody dagger, trying to regain control over her pounding heartbeat. Blood pulses in her ears, drowning out the murmurings of the others.

“You’ve shut many eyes, Arya Stark, and you will shut many more. Brown eyes, green eyes… blue eyes. But you will not shut mine today.”

The only thing she can think to respond is, “Why not?”

“Because the Lord of Light does not will it. Instead, He wishes me to convey a message to you. The dead are coming, Arya Stark. Every day, the Night King grows stronger. He marches toward Winterfell. The wights, the stories your Old Nan told you… they are all true. You need to seek not only skill, but knowledge. You need to learn about them.”

Arya shakes her head, mind spinning. Perhaps there is something in all the incense floating around in here, making her think crazy things about those she’s killed returning to life, Gendry’s beautiful eyes, her Winterfell.

“You just came back from the dead.”

“Yes, we mentioned that.”

“Can your Lord bring anyone back?” Arya asks stonily. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ she thinks, and suddenly the fear she’s been carrying inside of her since she was a small girl in King’s Landing turns to hard rage inside of her. “Even a man without a head?”

How dare this woman return from the oblivion where Arya sent her?

Kinvara studies her, slipping her bloodstained robe back on as though nothing has happened. “I’m not sure that’s the man you’d wish to see.”

“Why are you here? Why do the Faceless Men want you dead?”

“Because they wanted me to return and explain to you why the Lord of Light’s followers hired them to train you.”

Arya takes another step back, feeling her stomach roll. Gendry had said they’d wanted her for a reason. Of all things, she never suspected this.

“You don’t know anything. It was luck that we ran into Haqar back in Westeros. It was gratitude that made him give us the coin that brought us here. It was-“

“Was it?”

Arya gasps, air coming much too quickly. She’s never felt like this before, as though the air is coming in too purely and not at all.

“There are eyes you need to shut, Arya Stark, and you have not yet seen all the faces of Death. Go. Find the one whose purpose is to know things.”

Without bothering to ask the crazy bint another thing about what she might or might not know, for the first time in years Arya turns and flees.

The harsh light of day seems worse than when it blinded her. She blinks back tears against it. Someone, somewhere, has been following her for who knows how long. She’s been hunted since leaving King’s Landing, but not by the Lannisters, no. There are others that have designs over her life.

 _Idiot,_ she thinks to herself.

She cannot go to any of her usual places, not a stop on Ariel’s route, not her room with Gendry, not his forge. She needs to think, clear her head, decide a rational next move. Instead, she ducks into a small pub, already open despite the early hour.

Arya collapses onto a barstool, tossing the barkeep a coin just to have a pint of ale she won’t touch to keep him from kicking her out. Though she hasn’t imbibed the way the drunkards around her have, she feels as though she might wretch anyway.

“I’ll have one more, ser,” slurs a familiar voice from underneath a high table.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Arya groans, slamming her forehead down against the bar.

“You’re out of money, imp,” the barkeep calls, rolling his eyes.

“If you give me another, I’ll tell you an interesting trick I read about in a book once, describing how to keep ale cool even in summer heat.”

The barkeep chuckles. “How many tricks do you know, exactly?”

“That’s what I do,” garbles Tyrion Lannister from his spot on his back underneath a table, utterly drunk. “I drink and I know things.”

 _Find the one whose purpose is to know things,_ Kinvara’s voice sounds in her head and Arya wants to scream or cry all at once.

“Don’t worry about him,” she bites out at the barkeep. “I’ve got it.”

And she slumps down on the floor next to him.

Tyrion’s eyes widen in surprise; they’re bloodshot, and his clothing is filthy.

“She-wolf! What in the world is a lady like you doing in an establishment like this?”

Arya grits her teeth and mindfully takes her hand off the hilt of the bloody dagger concealed in her waistband. “I’ve come to ask you what you know about white walkers.”

Tyrion sits up, only falling over once.

“White walkers? Well little Stark girl… you have my attention."

 

 

           

           

           

           

           

           

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it! This work will span the entire series. Updates on Sundays!


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